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BOSTON:      SMALL,      MAYNARD 


HATCHWAYS 


BY 

ETHEL  SIDGWICK 


BOSTON 

SMALL,  MAYNARD  &  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1916 

BY  SMALL,  MAYNARD  &  COMPANY 

(INCORPORATED) 


8.  J.  PAKKHILL  &  Co.,  BOSTON,  U.S.A. 


CONTENTS 
PART  I 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  BY  BACHELORS 3 

II  SURFACES 21 

III  THE  FACTS 36 

IV  THE  DUCHESS  DEALS  FAITHFULLY  ....     53 
V  ADELAIDE  DOES  OTHERWISE 66 

VI  HOLMER  IN  TRIBUNAL 86 

VII  HATCHWAYS  AT  TEA 101 

VIII  BESS 116 

IX  MRS.  REDGATE  TAKES  A  HIGH  LINE  .     .     .     .136 

X  WICKFORD 160 

XI  CAPTURE  OF  GABRIEL 178 

PART  II 

XII      LlSE 201 

XIII  LlSE  WAITS  ON  THE  DUCHESS 2 17 

XIV  SEQUEL  TO  THE  FOREGOING 233 

XV     CAPTURE  OF  LISE 246 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XVI    INCLUSION  OF  SIR  GEORGE 277 

XVII  M.  Du  FRETTAY  MEETS  A  BISHOP     .      .     .  300 

XVIII     THE  TALE  OF  MARK 318 

XIX     THE  WORST  OVER 334 

XX  IMPLICATION  OF  ELEVEN  INFANTS      .     .     .  358 

XXI     IT 389 

XXII     CAPTURE  OF  THE  HERO 409 

XXIII    CURTAIN  DOWN 430 


PART  I 


BY  BACHELORS 

"So,  in  short,  you  remain  on  the  ground  for  the  pres- 
ent, and  you  choose  our  ground  to  remain  on,  Ga- 
briel. That  is  pleasant  of  you,  anyhow." 

"I  have  not  seen  your  ground,"  said  Gabriel  du 
Frettay,  "unless  from  several  thousand  metres  above 
it.  So  I  alight,  Sir  George,  and  I  take  a  level  ob- 
servation." He  settled  into  his  basket-chair,  and 
proceeded  to  do  so. 

"Level,"  said  his  host,  "I  feel  sure  it  will  be. 
You  want  to  look  about  you,  eh"?  And  what  sec- 
tion of  English  society  do  you  want  to  see*?" 

"Every  section,"  said  M.  du  Frettay.  "But  I 
like  the  upper  layers  best." 

"You  do?"     He  rested  slightly  on  the  pronoun. 

"Evidently.  When  I  was  young,  I  preferred  the 
top  layer  of  the  chocolate-boxes  always.  But  that 
did  not  prevent  me,  with  an  open  mind,  from  tasting 
the  rest." 

"You  like  chocolate?"  said  his  host,  stopping  in 

3 


4  HATCHWAYS 

his  promenade  to  look  at  his  young  visitor  with  keen 
kindly  eyes. 

"Madly,"  said  du  Frettay  gravely. 

"Excuse  me — so  did  your  father.  Dear  me,  the 
time  it  seems.  .  .  .  Very  good,"  he  pursued,  after 
an  interval.  "Then,  having  not  very  long  to  spend 
in  our  box  of  an  island,  you  wish  to  see " 

M.  du  Frettay's  eyes  glowed.  "I  wish  to  see  a 
Duke,  if  you  please,  and  a  Bishop,  and  a  Baconian, 
and  a  boxing  professional.  I  should  like  to  meet 
an  under-graduate,  and  what  you  call  a — an 
Orange-man,  and  one  of  those  who  uphold  the  de- 
funct Majesty  Charles  the  First.  Him  I  shall  em- 
brace very  probably — the  boxing  gentleman  I  shall 
avoid  it.  I  must  meet  women  of  all  sorts :  yet  that, 
I  understand,  in  your  box  I  am  bound.  Women  are 
in  evidence,  with  you.  The  Bishop's  large  family 
of  daughters,  all  on  platforms,  eclipse  the  Bishop. 
The  Duchess  eclipses  the  Duke.  The  bonnet  eclipses 
the  Salvation  lady,  yet  she  also  is  to  be  seen." 

"Distinctly,"  said  Sir  George.  "But  beware  of 
her,  she  is  used  to  scoffing.  .  .  .  Well,  Gabriel,  you 
have  certainly  come  prepared.  But  are  you  aware 
you  have  come  to  the  wrong  person*?" 

"Not  the  least,"  said  Gabriel,  who  was  enjoying 
by  far  the  most  sympathetic  hospitality  his  letters  of 


BY    BACHELORS  5 

introduction  had  yet  unearthed  for  him  in  London. 
He  looked  round  him  at  the  queer  little  quarters, 
obviously  a  flitting  home — a  foothold  as  the  French 
say — with  curiosity  from  which  courtesy  excluded 
amusement.  He  knew  his  father's  old  friend  had 
simple  tastes:  still,  he  had  expected  at  least  a  few 
lion-skins,  and  a  poisoned  dagger  or  two — some 
local  colour  from  the  uncharted  corners  of  the  earth 
in  which  Sir  George  Trenchard  had  spent  most  of 
his  life.  There  was  nothing  whatever,  unless  the 
proofs  on  the  table,  to  advertise  the  abode  of  a  cele- 
brated man. 

Sir  George  replied  to  the  expressive  glance  at  once. 
"I  am  only  in  England  for  short  seasons  myself,"  he 
said,  "and  the  whole  time  I  spend  in  preparing 'to 
plunge  again.  I  see  the  people  that  need  me" — (he 
had  been  summoned  to  Court,  Gabriel  knew,  quite 
recently) — "to  the  exclusion  often  of  my  best 
friends.  I  pick  up  such  things  as  I  need,  tools  and 
weapons  and  medicines,  and  a  book  or  two,  and  well- 
seasoned  young  men  who  have  not  too  great  a  value 
for  their  existence,  or  whose  families  want  to  get  rid 
of  them " 

"Show  me  some  of  those,"  said  Gabriel. 

"Do  I  see  one?"  said  Sir  George. 

"Ah ! — no,  I  thank  you.     My  family  puts  an  un- 


6  HATCHWAYS 

heard-of  value  on  my  existence.  My  mother  shud- 
dered at  my  venturing  so  far  as  London.  What  she 
would  sa>  if  I  went  to  Nyassa, — or  Nyanza,  is  it*? — 
I  dare  not  ask." 

"Don't  you  like  travelling1?"  the  other  enquired. 

"I  am  travelling.  Miles  from  home.  Must  I 
repeat  it*?" 

Sir  George,  who  had  not  spoken  idly, — he  seldom 
did, — for  he  liked  the  look  of  the  young  man,  and 
would  have  been  glad  to  attach  one  of  his  name  to 
his  little  band  of  experts  and  adventurers,  retreated 
again  quietly. 

"You  speak  English  very  well,"  he  said  with  an- 
other pleasant  look,  after  an  interval. 

"It  is  my  desire,"  said  Gabriel,  his  brow  bending, 
"I  should  say  my  wish,  to  do  so." 

"Why  not  your  desire1?" 

"Desire  is  a  French  word.  The  French  words  in 
your  vocabulary  are  only  used  by  shopmen,  footmen, 
and  the  Gallicised  individual." 

"Which  you  are  not*?  Ah, — dear  me, — well,  you 
may  be  right."  He  considered  for  a  time.  "Do 
you  like  the  country*?" 

"Enormously,  in  England,"  said  du  Frettay. 
"At  home,  I  enjoy  the  town." 

"I  see,  you  adapt  yourself.     The  fact  is,  there  is 


BY   BACHELORS  7 

no  town  for  the  moment,  in  the  sense  you  want. 
Parliament  is  not  sitting.  The  Dukes  and  Bishops 
would  be  at  home." 

"Do  you  know  a  Duke*?"  said  du  Frettay,  fixing 
him  for  the  first  time  with  his  very  bright  blue  eyes. 
They  were  no  sort  of  English  blue,  and  set  in  the 
French  manner ;  but  they  were  the  eyes  of  his  family, 
and  Sir  George  remembered  them  at  once. 

"I  know  a  Duchess,"  he  said. 

"Ah,  bon!    Typical,  is  she*?" 

"Well, — she  is  a  useful  woman." 

"Interesting?' 

"I  can't  answer  for  that.     She  is  an  old  friend." 

"Pardon."  Du  Frettay  hung  fire,  watching  the 
serious  brown  face  opposed  to  him.  More  and  more 
he  liked  the  man.  He  would  almost  have  faced 
Nyanza  to  know  him  better, — almost,  not  quite. 

"The  boys  might  suit  you,"  said  Sir  George,  who 
was  still  pondering,  seeking  ways  and  means  to 
launch  his  guest  amid  his  multiple  businesses. 
"They  are  not  typical  of  anything,  specially;  still, 
they're  nice  young  fellows.  How  old  are  you,  Ga- 
briel4?" He  turned. 

"Thirty,  Sir  George." 

"No,  are  you  really"?  Dear,  dear,  how  time  goes 
on.  I  remember  though "  He  brought  up 


8  HATCHWAYS 

again  in  his  musing, — he  was  a  very  absent  lion, 
this.  "But  we  were  talking  of  the  Duchess's  boys. 
Wickford  is — let  me  see — twenty-eight.  That 
would  suit  fairly.  The  other's  younger.  They 
would  all  be  at  Holmer  now."  He  waited,  cogi- 
tating anew,  his  eyes  wandering  to  his  proofs. 

"Don't  bother  about  me,  Sir  George,"  young  du 
Frettay  put  into  the  pause,  in  his  neat  nimble  utter- 
ance. He  had  knowledge  enough  to  use  the  title, 
and  he  spoke  it  perfectly, — only  he  scanned  it 
wrong.  "Sir-George"  observed  it,  absent  as  he  was. 
Our  language,  bad  enough  to  master  in  its  separate 
details,  has  a  last  knock-down  blow  to  offer  the  for- 
eigner in  the  emphasis  of  locutions,  which  are  worse 
than  words.  M.  du  Frettay,  who  could  probably 
have  scanned  without  a  blink  such  nice  little  mouth- 
fuls  as  irrefutable  and  conciliatory,  was  baffled  by 
the  two  syllables  of  Sir  George's  name. 

"I  was  not  serious,"  he  explained.  "Being 
happy,  I  seldom  am." 

"I  think,"  said  Sir  George,  coming  to  a  decision 
and  a  stand,  simultaneously,  "you  had  better  know 
Ernestine." 

"Is  that  the  Duchess4?" 

"No,  but  next  door  to  her.     A  better  way  than 


BY    BACHELORS  9 

mine.  The  question  is — Hullo,  here's  Marchant. 
Now,  this  is  luck.  Marchant,  here's  a  young  man 
who " 

Seizing  the  new-comer  by  the  arm,  he  was  running 
ahead  reckless  of  forms,  when  he  was  reminded  of 
the  habits  of  civilization  by  Gabriel's  getting  up. 
Perhaps  in  the  wilds  of  Uganda  Sir  George  occa- 
sionally forgot  about  the  social  forms,  or  took  them 
for  granted;  but  Gabriel  and  Mr.  Marchant  would 
not  allow  him.  The  new  arrival,  indeed,  looked 
extraordinarily  correct,  and  a  little  frightened. 
The  fact  of  a  Frenchman  accounted,  possibly,  for 
the  shade  of  fear. 

"Marchant,"  said  Sir  George,  "is  a  Professor,  Ga- 
briel. A  Professor  of  Forestry." 

"Forestry,"  said  Gabriel,  looking  intelligent. 
"Enchanted." 

"A  professor,"  said  Sir  George,  "is  the  top  layer 
of  our  society,  whatever  it  may  be  of  yours." 

Mr.  Marchant  appeared  a  trifle  more  harassed,  at 
this.  He  was  not  an  old  man,  but  he  had  a  world- 
weary  aspect,  which  hampered  Gabriel  at  first. 
Finding  on  further  acquaintance  that  it  did  not  the 
least  express  his  nature,  he  laid  it  finally  to  a  pro- 
longed struggle  with  the  climate  of  a  University 
town. 


10  HATCHWAYS 

"He  will  be  extremely  useful  to  you, — oh,  yes, 
you  will,  Marchant, — far  more  than  I.  He  knows, 
for  instance,  an  undergraduate." 

"More  than  one,"  said  Marchant. 

"Several.  He  knows  a  Bishop,  certainly.  I  bet 
he  could  find  you  a  Baconian,  to  look  at, — and  an 
Orange-man,  for  that  matter.  We  both  could. 
Hey?' 

"Oh,  Lord,  yes,  I  suppose  so,"  said  Marchant, 
having  reflected.  "But  what's  all  this?" 

"He  is  acquainted  with  a  Duchess,"  pursued  Sir 
George.  "Unluckily  the  same  as  mine." 

"The  same  as  most  people's,"  said  Marchant. 
"The  dear  woman  is  really  so  active " 

"Has  she  been  interfering  with  the  Forestry  plan- 
tations? I  forgot  you  were  on  her  ground." 

"It's  not  her  ground,"  said  Mr.  Marchant.  "I 
did  a  private  deal  with  the  Duke  over  that  bit  of 
land.  The  Duke's  of  age.  If  her  Grace  comes 
poaching " 

"A  private  deal?  With  Wickford?  My  good 
man,  she'll  never  let  you  hear  the  last  of  it." 

"Why  not?"  said  Marchant,  growing  excitable. 
"They  want  money,  or  so  the  Redgates  inform  me. 
I  want  land,  decent  land,  with  stuff  upon  it  fit  to 


BY    BACHELORS  11 

grow.  If  Wickford  can't  stand  up  to  her  at  his 
age  it's  not  my " 

"Gently,  gently,"  said  Sir  George.  "Du  Frettay 
is  out  of  all  this.  Now  I  will  explain  to  you  about 
du  Frettay,  who  loves  Forestry  plantations.  They 
are  intensely  English  things " 

"German,"  said  Mr.  Marchant. 

"Oh,  good  heavens!  Well,  we  will  pass  it  over. 
Du  Frettay  is  a  young  man  who  flies." 

"What?' 

"Yes.  He  flies  too  much.  He  overdid  it,  and 
his  mother  grew  anxious.  Since  then,  he  has  im- 
proved flying  for  other  people,  and  being  an  excit- 
able and  intensive  sort  of  young  man,  he  overdid  it 
again.  He  has  now  come  to  England,  really  on 
secret  service  in  the  flying  interest,  ostensibly  for  a 
holiday,  of  an  instructive  kind.  He  wants  to  take 
notes  of  our  place,  and  poke  about  a  little, — much 
as  I  do  in  East  Africa.  He  may  or  may  not,  in  my 
own  manner,  publish  the  results.  He  reserves  the 
right  of  choosing."  (Sir  George  glanced  at  the 
proofs,  with  resentment.)  "He  prefers  the  best 
society " 

"Unlike  you,"  said  Marchant. 

"Most  unlike.  He  is  afraid  of  nobody, — unlike 
me  again." 


12  HATCHWAYS 

"Can  he  face  dinner-parties?"  said  Marchant. 
"Mixed  ones,  George*?"  There  seemed  to  be  some 
private  bearing,  in  these  remarks. 

"Good  heavens,  yes, — chooses  them  probably. 
Nothing  daunts  him:  hostesses  in  diamonds,  red 
tape,  black  gaiters,  blue  ribbons " 

"He  had  better  know  Ernestine,"  said  Mr.  Mar- 
chant. 

There  was  a  pause.  Trenchard's  and  du  Fret- 
tay's  eyes  met.  Then,  with  a  suden  impulse,  nec- 
essary in  this  absent  lion's  haunts,  both  the  guests 
agreed  to  sit  down.  They  found  two  chairs  which 
faced  one  another.  Sir  George  still  stood  about  the 
hearthrug, — in  different  corners  of  it,  still,  more  or 
less  in  place. 

"Who  is  Ernestine*?"  asked  M.  du  Frettay. 

"Ernestine,"  said  Mr.  Marchant,  "is  everybody. 
Have  you  seen  that  old  play  somebody  scraped  up 
recently  and  made  the  fashion,  they  call  Everyman4? 
Well,  Ernestine  is  Everywoman.  She  hardly  ex- 
ists, as  a  separate  individual." 

"Oh,  come,  come,"  said  the  gentler  Sir  George. 
"Ernestine  exists  all  right.  You  ask  the  boys." 

"But  this  is  excellent,"  said  Gabriel.  "All  my 
life  it  has  been  my  desire — wish — to  know  all 
women.  I  have  not  accomplished  it.  Even  all 


BY   BACHELORS  18 

Frenchwomen,  the  majority,  alas,  escape  me.  Now 
I  shall  attain  it,  in  this  lady's  acquaintance*?" 

"She'll  see  to  you,"  was  the  Professor's  reply. 
He  seemed  curious,  a  little,  about  du  Frettay,  but 
nothing  offensive.  Flying, — then  a  new  study, — 
was  enough  to  spur  curiosity. 

"The  question  is,"  said  Sir  George,  "how  to  get 
hold  of  her:  how  to  get  hold  of  anybody.  Here  I 
am,  fixed."  He  struck  his  foot  down. 

"You're  not,  George,"  said  Mr.  Marchant. 
"That's  nonsense.  A  week-end  at  Holmer  would 
do  you  all  the  good  in  the  world.  Only  you're  sure 
the  Duchess  would  give  a  party  for  you  if  you 
went.  If  that's  the  fact,  why  not  admit  it?'  He 
had  a  kind  of  angelic  reproach  fulness. 

"Of  course  she  would,"  said  Sir  George,  looking 
conscious.  "Not  but  what  I  am  fond  of  Gertrude, 
in  a  general  way.  Even  in  having  a  party  for  me, 
I  should  be  certain  she  meant  well.  Only " 

There  was  another  easy  interval.  The  friend- 
ship of  the  two  had  a  well-tested  ease  that  spread 
unaware  to  the  third  party.  Indeed,  it  embraced 
him.  Marchant  was  now  considering  ways  and 
means  in  his  interest,  just  like  Sir  George.  It 
greatly  amused  Gabriel,  at  his  stage  of  life  and  ex- 
perience, to  be  so  taken  in  hand;  but,  passive  of 


14  HATCHWAYS 

intention,  he  listened  and  "laissait  faire."  That 
something  would  come  of  it,  granted  these  men,  he 
could  not  doubt,  their  goodwill  was  so  genuine. 

"I  thought  the  boys  might  suit  du  Frettay,"  said 
Sir  George,  now  slightly  deprecating.  "They  al- 
ways seemed  to  me  decent  young  fellows, — and  not 
devoid  of  brains." 

"The  younger's  brains  of  a  sort,"  said  Marchant, 
with  a  passing  professional  grimness. 

"Then  there's  Adelaide,"  pursued  the  lion,  more 
hopefully.  "She's  a  fairly  typical  English  girl." 

"There's  Lise,"  said  Marchant.  "Exquisite,  if 

exceptional.  .  .  .  Look  here "  He  met  M.  du 

Frettay's  bright  eyes,  which  had  been  shifting  rap- 
idly at  all  these  names.  "Suppose  you  drop  George 
— leave  him  to  his  interviews  and  rubbish, — and 
come  down  with  me  for  the  week-end  to  Holmer 
Hatch." 

"Week-end,"  said  M.  du  Frettay.  "I  shall  be 
delighted."  Indeed,  such  an  inimitably  English 
thing,  who  could  refuse1?  "But  you  must  not,"  he 
carefully  added,  "put  yourself  out  for  me." 

"I  shan't,"  said  the  Professor  simply.  "I'm  going 
down  in  any  case  before  term  opens,  to  look  at  my 
plantations.  I've  got  a  sort  of  a  box,  down  there, 


BY   BACHELORS  15 

does  for  me  and  a  pupil,  at  need.  I  can  put  you 
up  all  right, — granted  you  can  manage  with  bach- 
elor quarters " 

M.  du  Frettay  smiled.  Happening  to  possess  a 
finished  appearance,  no  one  this  side  seemed  to 
reckon  for  the  fact  that  he  had  ever  roughed  it  in 
camp. 

"I'll  introduce  you  to  the  Redgates,"  said  Mar- 
chant.  "That's  Ernestine, — Mrs.  Redgate  is  Ern- 
estine's real  name.  That's  all  the  start  you'll  want 
for  the  Duchess,  specially  with  George  at  your  back. 
Mention  George,  and  Holmer  magnificence  will 
crack  at  once.  I  shall  have  no  trouble  in  getting  rid 
of  you,  M.  du  Frettay.  I  shall  shunt  you  on  to 
Holmer  within  the  week." 

"Holmer  is  the  Duchess*?"  asked  Gabriel. 

"Holmer  is  the  Duchess, — Hatchways  is  Ernes- 
tine. Personally,"  said  Marchant,  "I  should  rec- 
ommend Ernestine's  place  in  preference  to  the 
Duchess's " 

"So  should  I,"  said  a  dreamy  voice  in  the  back- 
ground. "Oh,  so  should  I." 

"You  see,  he  agrees  with  me.  Ernestine  lets  you 
alone,  somehow,  doesn't  she,  George?  She  looks 
after  you  all  right,  but  effaces  herself  sufficiently, — 


16  HATCHWAYS 

without  prejudice  to  being  there  when  she's  wanted, 
such  as  when  the  bath  goes  wrong.  She  hasn't  any 
little  dogs  and  things  that  bark.  She  doesn't  expect 
you  to  talk  in  the  morning " 

"Perhaps,"  said  Gabriel,  "she  talks  herself." 

"No, — no,  she  does  not.  Talk*? — Ernestine? 
Of  course,  she  says  things,  when  you  meet  her  about 
the  place.  In  the  afternoon,  she  stops  where  she  is, 
you  know  where  to  find  her.  No  racketing  about 

to  lectures  and  stuff "  The  Professor,  urged 

no  doubt  by  University  memories,  was  getting 
harassed  again.  On  first  falling  upon  the  subject 
of  Ernestine,  his  expression  had  grown  beautifully 
calm. 

"Even  to  an  Oxford  bachelor,"  joined  in  Sir 
George,  "fixed  in  the  habits  of  luxury,  and  fussy 
beyond  belief,  Ernestine,  as  you  see,  can  do  no  harm. 
She  is  particularly  harmless.  We  love  her " 

"What?"  said  Mr.  Marchant. 

"Simply  love  her, — all  we  selfish  bachelors  do. 
We  never  say  so,  our  hearts  only  melt  within  us 
when,  in  the  middle  of  all  sorts  of  other  things,  we 
are  asked  by  her  to  come  and  stay.  We  drop  the 
other  things,  which  for  weeks  have  been  our  best 
excuses.  We  go  to  Ernestine,  and  she  meets  us, — 
that  is,  she  always  meets  me " 


BY   BACHELORS  17 

"Age,"  said  Marchant,  very  unpleasantly.  "She 
makes  no  favourites." 

"Does  she  not?"  du  Frettay  asked. 

"No.  Hey?"  For  the  lion  had  once  more 
ceased  parade,  his  back  towards  them. 

"Oh,  I  think  she  has  a  favourite,"  he  said.  "I 
think  so.  I  own  it's  uncommonly  hard  to 
tell.  .  .  ." 

"Well,"  said  Marchant,  after  a  pause  of  regard- 
ing him.  "Anyhow,  there  you  are.  Couldn't  do 
better  than  Hatchways, — could  he,  George?" 

"No,"  said  the  lion.  "Certainly  not.  .  .  .  And 
if,  while  you  are  about  there,  Stephen,  you  happen 
to  see  a  chance  of  suggesting  I  could  come  for  a  day 
or  two, — some  time  when  Gertrude  is  being  detained 
in  London " 

"I  shall  do  no  such  thing!"  cried  Marchant. 
"Where  are  the  obligations  of  old  friendship  you  are 
always  talking  about?  What's  Hatchways  to  you? 
If  you  won't  stop  with  me  at  the  Lodge,  Holmer's 
your  business :  the  Avenue,  and  the  Shrubberies,  and 
the  portraits,  and  that  dreary  dinner-table  in  that 
beastly  dark  room,  and  English  pretension  all  mixed 
up  with  Irish  untidiness " 

"Hush,  hush,"  said  Sir  George,  anxiously. 
"Stop,  Stephen,  I  won't  have  this.  I  can't,  you 


18  HATQHWAYS 

know.  Holmer  does  make  me  shudder,  if  you  like, 
but  it's  not  Gertrude's  fault.  Nothing  in  the  world 
could  make  a  house  like  that  attractive.  It's  not 
her  fault  either  if  the  Redgates  have  an  attractive 
little  house  half  a  mile  away.  Hatchways  is  easily 
the  prettiest  bit  of  land  I  know,  quite  apart  from 
what  Redgate  has  done  for  it.  One's  heart  leaps 
up,  if  one  is  English,  merely  stepping  inside  their 
gate.  Coming  from  East  Africa  particularly. 
Coming  from  France " 

"It  shall  leap,"  said  Gabriel,  wickedly. 

"It  will.  It  will, — listen!  There  are  larch- 
trees,  with  branches  like  knotted  string  all  bunched 
with  little  cones.  There  are  squirrels  to  eat  them. 
There  are  no  glass-houses  or  view-points  or  vul- 
garity  " 

"There  is  a  view-point,"  interrupted  Marchant. 
"I  found  it  last  time  I  was  there." 

"Well,  so  did  I,  and  it  wouldn't  be  the  same  one. 
Everyone  for  themselves,  at  Hatchways, — nothing 
prescribed, — it's  England,  that.  Gabriel  thinks  he 
knows  better, — but  then  he  never  stayed  there. 
Perhaps,  with  all  his  arts,  he  never  will.  .  .  .  Do 
you  know  the  long  growth  of  primroses  in  a  hazel- 
wood,  all  dredged  with  last  year's  leaves'?  How 
you  reach  down  inches  of  coolness  to  find  the  buds? 


BY    BACHELORS  19 

Do  you  know  the  chuckle  of  the  nightingale  those 
first  incredibly  hot  May  days " 

"Days?"  said  du  Frettay. 

"There  you  are!  You  only  allow  him  to  per- 
form at  midnight,  probably.  Do  you  know  how  he 
ventriloquises, — the  times  Iveagh  and  I  have  stalked 
him, — you'll  like  Iveagh,  by  the  way, — never  any 
luck!  The  bird's  uncanny,  the  poets  are  right, — 
calling  him  a  wandering  voice " 

"They  didn't,  that  was  the  cuckoo,"  said  Gabriel. 

Sir  George,  dropping  rhetoric,  turned  and  faced 
him,  reproachfully  grave.  "Was  it1?"  he  said. 
"Well,  anyhow,  that's  Ernestine.  That  was  what 
we  were  making  for,  wasn't  it1?  Ease  and  sun  and 
afternoon  pleasantness, — and  any  point  of  view  you 
like  to  take."  He  laughed  at  himself.  "Odd  it 
works  out  like  that,  but  it  is  so."  He  glanced  at 
his  friend,  who  nodded. 

"And  shyness,  like  the  primrose  buds'?"  asked 
Gabriel.  "And  mystery,  like  the  nightingale?" 

"No,  no,  I  think  not."  The  lion  pondered. 
"She  is  very  simple." 

"All  women  are  mysterious,"  the  Frenchman  sug- 
gested. 

"Ernestine  isn't,"  cut  in  Marchant,  seemingly 
vexed.  "No  moonshine  about  her, — don't  you  go 


20  HATCHWAYS 

off  with  those  ideas.  Ernestine's  English, — she's  as 
straight  as  they  make  them.  She — she — well,  there 
isn't  much  to  say  about  her.  She's  just  a  nice 
woman,  explains  herself,  you  wait  and  see  her. 
Not,"  finished  Marchant  with  the  same  effort, 
"that  there's  much  to  see." 

"She  is  not  beautiful  then?" 

"Good  heavens,  no!  Don't  go  expecting,"  said 
Marchant  anxiously,  "anything  out  of  the  way. 
That's  George's  fault,  maundering  about  the  gar- 
den. It's  a  pretty  garden,  of  course,  but  there  are 
thousands  in  England  as  good " 

"An  Every-garden,"  murmured  Sir  George  in  a 
far  corner. 

"But  Madame — Ernestine  is  not  to  be  talked  of, 
then4?"  persisted  du  Frettay.  "She  is  not  spoken 
of,  though  being  so  desired*?"  As  both  the  elder 
men  gazed  at  one  another,  as  it  were  disturbed, — 
"You  mean  it  is  better  to  know  her,"  he  summed  up 
to  relieve  them. 

"That's  it,  the  only  thing  is  to  know  her.  Then 
you're  all  right.  And  that,"  said  Mr.  Marchant, 
as  though  recovering  from  an  annoying  diversion, 
"is  where  we  started  from.  .  .  .  Now  look  here,  du 
Frettay.  As  to  trains  .  .  ." 


II 

SURFACES 

TRAINS  were  to  the  point.  Gabriel  met  Ernestine 
Redgate  first  in  the  train,  or  rather  on  the  platform; 
the  same  being  an  interesting  addition  to  his  notes 
on  London  life.  The  week-end  habit,  being  a 
Parisian,  was  new  to  him :  as  also  was  that  of  living 
out  of  town.  Parisians  live  in  a  town, — the  more 
in  it  the  better, — the  closer,  the  dearer,  the  prouder 
to  cling  to  Paris'  heart.  The  English  avoid  their 
London,  so  pompously  advertised,  as  much  as  pos- 
sible. Needing  London  inevitably,  they  take  trains 
to  and  fro.  That  is  to  say,  they  take  the  train, — 
ordinarily,  to  good  places  like  Holmer,  there  is  but 
one,  each  way,  that  is  right  and  classical. 

This  was  the  train,  needless  to  say,  that  Mr. 
Marchant  took.  And  so  did  Mrs.  Redgate  take  it, 
who  had  come  up  to  shop  seriously  at  the  January 
Sales.  And  so,  it  appeared,  as  names  cropped  up 
in  the  discourse,  one  by  one,  did  several  other  mem- 
bers of  their  future  society.  Everybody  met  every- 
body upon  the  platform,  which,  though  not  quite  so 

21 


22  HATCHWAYS 

unsavoury  as  a  French  terminus  platform,  was  still 
a  somewhat  quaint  background  for  a  social  gather- 
ing. Thus,  M.  du  Frettay  began  early  to  be 
amused. 

One  of  the  Duchess's  sons  was  in  the  train,  he 
learnt,  as  was  also  Miss  Adelaide  Courtier,  hereto- 
fore mentioned  as  the  typical  English  girl.  So,  it 
eventually  appeared,  and  quite  independently  of  his 
daughter,  was  Miss  Courtier's  father,  a  Justice  of 
the  Peace  and  everything  he  should  be,  including  a 
bully  of  the  country-side.  So,  utterly  independent 
of  either  of  these,  was  Miss  Courtier's  mother,  who 
lived  (for  some  unexplained  reason)  in  London,  and 
merely  came  to  the  Holmer  train  to  call,  so  to  speak, 
upon  her  conveniently-collected  friends.  They 
were  all  (except  this  last  mysterious  lady)  going 
home  again,  after  a  happy  day's  gadding  for 
various  purposes.  That  is,  the  main  body  had  been 
gadding  happily.  Mrs.  Redgate  had  been  assidu- 
ously engaged  as  Providence  for  others,  the  Duchess 
to  wit. 

Gabriel  guessed  who  she  was  from  the  simple  fact 
of  his  companion  looking  pleased  at  the  sight  of  her. 
He  had  observed  him  look  frightened  first,  of  every- 
body else.  Not  but  what  Marchant  could  talk  well, 
and  wittily  even,  when  escape  was  really  cut  off. 


SURFACES  23 

Only  the  Heaven  of  which  he  dreamed, — and  prac- 
tically reached,  at  Oxford, — was  to  meet  nobody 
at  all. 

"How  do  you  do*?"  said  Ernestine,  turning. 
"Are  you  coming  into  residence*?  Oh,  that's  nice." 
She  then  smiled  on  introduction  to  Gabriel, — no 
more.  She  was  distracted  in  mind,  waiting  for 
various  parcels  and  persons,  essential  to  her  day's 
providences,  and  nonappearing.  She  had  a  pleas- 
ant ordinary  voice,  and  pretty  smile,  and  she  was 
tall,  to  French  ideas, — that  was  all  Gabriel  noticed. 
Her  next  remark  was  to  ask  the  time  of  Professor 
Marchant. 

"Oh,  dear, — Bess,"  she  said  to  herself.  "Bad 
girl,  she  promised.  She  will  be  late." 

Gabriel  wondered  who  Bess  was;  he  felt  a  pang 
of  conjectural  interest.  However,  too  many  stars 
were  rising  and  setting  in  this  active  little  station 
reception  for  him  to  spare  much  time  for  merely 
conjectural  divinities.  Holmer  society  seemed  to 
contain,  at  least,  a  remarkable  number  of  pretty 
girls.  They  cropped  up,  one  by  one,  unescorted, 
swinging  parcels  and  smiling  at  Ernestine.  Some 
of  them  spared  a  glance  as  well  for  M.  du  Frettay, 
who,  needless  to  say,  looked  back.  First  impres- 
sions, he  trusted,  were  pleasant  all  round.  For  him- 


24  HATCHWAYS 

self,  he  was  quite  contented,  seated  in  his  carriage- 
corner,  arms  folded,  observing  the  world. 

"I  am  taking  down  ten  sacks "  said  Ernestine. 

"Sacks'?"  said  Marchant. 

"Yes.     For  the  Duchess.     Sacks  of  sand." 

"Sand?"  repeated  Marchant.  "What  on  earth 
does  she  want  sand  for?" 

"Nothing  in  your  line,"  said  Ernestine.  "It's  for 
the  school, — the  infants  to  play  in.  It's  very  kind 

of  Gertrude  to Oh,  Adelaide,  dear.  Have 

you  seen  Bess?" 

With  the  words,  a  very  bright  particular  star 
arose  for  du  Frettay,  in  the  person  of  Miss  Courtier, 
who,  escorted  by  the  Duchess's  son,  at  this  moment 
made  her  appearance.  The  former,  a  plain  young 
man,  merely  nodded  and  went  on  down  the  train. 
Miss  Courtier  smiled  affably,  her  eyes  at  once  taking 
in  the  stranger,  and  moved,  with  a  limp,  in  their 
direction. 

The  Professor  was  frightened,  of  course:  but 
Ernestine  was  there,  at  the  door  of  his  carriage,  to 
protect  him.  The  limp,  calling  for  enquiry  and 
condolence,  had  first  to  be  explained.  They  heard 
all  about  it,  from  Adelaide,  in  loud  and  lively  tones. 
She  had  slipped  on  the  ice,  turned  her  ankle,  a 
"beastly  bore."  A  party  of  them,  including  "Sam 


SURFACES  25 

and  Iveagh,"  had  come  up  to  skate,  since  nature  re- 
fused them  that  gratification  in  the  country.  They 
had  not  been  at  it  half  an  hour  when — sickening  I—- 
spoilt their  day.  She  took  it,  and  her  probable 
pain,  du  Frettay  thought,  with  exquisite  good 
humour.  She  was  really  a  lovely  girl.  She  was 
clothed  well,  though  gaily  to  his  Parisian  taste,  in 
crimson  and  white,  and  must  have  looked  most  ef- 
fective, skating  with  the  plain  young  man.  For 
that  he  had  been  her  partner,  du  Frettay,  at  the  pres- 
ent stage,  dared  not  doubt. 

"Oh,  that  silly  sand,"  said  Adelaide,  accepting 
the  subject.  "Yes,  that's  the  latest, — hadn't  you 
heard*?  Renie  Allgood  doesn't  want  sand  for  the 
infants,  it's  only  Lady  Wick  told  her  she  did.  She 
ought  to  want  it.  Now,  of  course,  sand's  a  neces- 
sity of  life,  for  everybody.  Anyhow,  none  of  our 
lives  will  be  fit  for  much,  till  it's  properly  dumped. 
And  of  course  Ernestine  has  got  to  dump  it.  No 
one  else  has  time."  She  turned  rallying  eyes  on  the 
Professor's  guardian. 

"I  hope,  Mrs.  Redgate,"  said  Marchant,  "Her 
Grace  does  not  intend  to  turn  Holmer  into  a  seaside 
place.  If  she  adds  an  esplanade,  I  should  like  to 
be  warned  in  time.  As  it  is,  there  are  too  many 
children  about." 


26  HATCHWAYS 

"Then,"  said  Ernestine,  "you  shan't  come  to  my 
children's  party." 

"May  I?"  ventured  Gabriel,  catching  her  eye. 

"Oh  yes,  do,"  said  Adelaide,  calmly.  "Men  are 
always  useful,  aren't  they,  Ernestine?" 

Mrs.  Redgate  smiled  merely.  She  was  cer- 
tainly not  a  loquacious  lady.  The  next  instant,  in 
obedience  to  a  complicated  private  sign  from  a 
porter,  she  disappeared. 

Miss  Courtier,  to  the  Professor's  confusion,  did 
not  follow  her.  He  had  not  reckoned,  evidently, 
on  his  smart  young  aviator  letting  him  in  for  things 
like  this.  Adelaide,  up  to  now,  had  always  been 
kind  enough  to  overlook  him.  Yet  here  she  was 
still,  lively  as  ever,  and  inclined  to  besiege  them 
with  confidence. 

"Iveagh  ought  to  be  doing  it,"  she  observed  of 
the  sand.  "But  he  told  Ernestine  he  wouldn't. 
Iveagh's  got  enough  to  do  looking  after  me." 

"Did  he  say  that*?"  asked  Marchant. 

"Oh  no, — but  you  know  Iveagh.  His  back's  up, 
having  to  come  at  all.  He's  just  on  the  edge  of 
breaking  out.  Sand  into  the  bargain  would  have 
done  for  him, — specially  the  Duchess's, — Ernestine 
knows.  It's  a  rotten  shame,"  said  Adelaide  cas- 
ually, "she  should  be  fagged  for  it.  She's  doing  the 


SURFACES  27 

infant's  treat,  as  it  is,  which  anyone  would  have 
thought  would  be  enough.  I  tell  her,  the  only 
thing's  to  stick  out  and  refuse, — but  she  never  does. 
So  she  gets  put  upon."  Thus  moralising,  Miss 
Courtier's  independent  glance  met  M.  du  Frettay's. 

"If  I  could  be  of  any  use  to  Madame — "  he  sug- 
gested, stirring. 

"Oh,  you  couldn't,  I  don't  suppose." 

"Is  it  necessary  the  sand  should  be  personally  con- 
ducted4?" Gabriel  asked,  re-settling  at  command. 

"Of  course,"  smiled  Adelaide.  "Goodness,  do 
you  think  it  could  get  down  to  Holmer  alone1?  It's 
a  very  special  sort,  from  a  Froebel  Institute,  not  just 
from  anywhere  underground " 

"Sterilised?"  asked  Gabriel. 

"Sanitary*?"  murmured  Marchant. 

— "And  the  Duchess  got  it  in  person  from  a  place 
in  the  City,  so  you  mustn't  laugh.  And  she's  not 
able  to  see  to  it  herself,  naturally, — since  Wickford 
can't  ever  be  trusted  to  make  a  speech  alone " 

"So  Mrs.  Redgate  must?" 

"Oh,  there's  no  necessity!  Lady  Wick  wouldn't 
like  her  to  give  up  better  things  for  it.  If  Ernestine 

was  engaged  in  more  useful  work "  She 

winked  in  the  Professor's  direction. 

"You  would  have  had  to  do,"  he  suggested. 


28  HATCHWAYS 

"I?  The  Duchess  doesn't  fag  me  ...  Iveagh 
might  have  had  to,  or  a  footman  might  have  come 
up.  .  .  .  I'm  telling  them  all  about  you  and  Lady 
Wick  and  the  sandbags,  Ernestine." 

The  Professor's  harassed  look  melted  again, — sne 
was  back. 

"I  think  they'll  be  all  right  now,"  said  Mrs.  Red- 
gate,  dusting  her  bare  fingers.  "And  I've  wired  the 
cart  to  come  down.  After  that, — really!" 

"Hadn't  you  better  walk  up  with  them*?"  scoffed 
Adelaide.  "Hullo!" 

She  broke  off  and  turned  about,  as  the  late  pas- 
senger, a  tall,  handsome,  fur-coated  gentleman,  with 
an  amazingly  strong  colour  on  him,  shouldered  his 
way  past,  affording  her  a  glance  of  recognition, — 
it  really  could  not  be  called  more, — as  he  went. 

"Why,  there's  my  respected  father,"  said  Ade- 
laide, much  surprised.  "What's  he  playin'  at? 
Oho !"  She  interrupted  herself,  turning  to  the  com- 
pany. "That'll  be  the  limit,  for  Iveagh!  Father 
here, — he  needn't  have  come  at  all !  What  a  game, 
I  say.  What  do  you  bet  he  goes  back*?" 

"Anything  you  like,"  said  Mrs.  Redgate. 

"He'll  be  savage,  though,"  said  Adelaide,  com- 
placently. "I  rather  like  riling  Iveagh, — there's 
always  a  kind  of  hope  he  may  go  over  the  edge. 


SURFACES  39 

'Sides,  Wick  advised  me  not  to."  She  made  the 
little  click  that  one  does  on  a  coachman's  box,  just 
audible,  charming  on  her  tongue.  "Well,  so  long," 
she  added,  swinging  her  gloves.  "I'm  going  up." 

"I  hope  you'll  get  a  place,  dear,"  said  Ernestine. 

"Oh,  he'll  keep  one.  Two,  I  said,  to  put  my  foot 
up.  I  told  him,"  was  Miss  Courtier's  parting  re- 
mark, with  an  exquisite  smile,  "a  smoker  would  do." 

The  Professor's  and  Mrs.  Redgate's  eyes  met,  at 
her  departure,  but,  perhaps  because  a  stranger  was 
present,  they  made  no  comment.  Du  Frettay  was 
able  to  amuse  himself  with  all  kinds  of  conjectures 
as  to  the  position  of  that  beautiful  girl,  in  the  un- 
doubtedly elegant  household  it  might  shortly  be  his 
luck  to  enter, — entirely  free  from  hampering  facts. 
That  Mrs.  Redgate  held  all  the  facts,  in  the  quiet 
depths  of  her,  he  was  curiously  convinced :  since  she 
was  a  lady  who  looked  at  people  in  that  way,  and 
said  so  little. 

The  next  moment,  even  this  train  of  thoughts  was 
arrested  in  him,  for  "Bess"  appeared.  Bess,  long- 
desired,  with  a  large  basket, — an  English  country 
market-basket,  spread  with  a  cloth, — broke  through 
the  bustle  behind  Mrs.  Redgate,  and  Gabriel's  con- 
jectural interest  bloomed  into  fact.  Yet  another 
charming  girl, — what  a  country ! 


30  HATCHWAYS 

"Bess, — thank  goodness!"  was  Ernestine's  com- 
ment, as  the  basket  changed  hands.  "It's  heavy, — 
goodness !  Dear,  I  hope  you  haven't  had  to  rush." 
She  did  not  seem  anxious,  though:  and  certainly 
Bess's  looks  left  no  room  for  anxiety. 

"Now  I've  got  to  fly,"  said  Bess,  immediately. 
"That  makes  the  last,  doesn't  it,  Ernestine*? — the 
rest  they  swore  to  send.  What  about  the  sacks'? — 
oh,  that's  all  right.  I  saw  Iveagh,  he'll  do  it  at 
the  other — won't  he"?  Horrid  boy,  he  might! 

Good-bye,  it's  been  too  short, — it  always  is " 

And  she  kissed  Ernestine. 

"Till  March  fifteen,"  said  Mrs.  Redgate,  holding 
her:  a  date  registered,  of  course,  by  an  attentive 
young  man.  "Oh,  Bess, — fancy!  He  hadn't  got 
any  little  trees!  None  left, — and  I  do  hate  a  bor- 
rowed one,  dropping  needles  about.  Don't  you1?" 

"Professor  Marchant  will  give  you  one,"  said 
Bess.  "He's  a  nursery."  And  she  went,  buoy- 
antly as  she  had  arrived,  just  two  minutes  pre- 
viously. 

"What's  that*?"  fussed  Marchant,  awaking. 
"What  did  she  say?  A  nursery?" 

"A  little  tree,"  explained  Ernestine,  with  her  nice 
smile.  "Late  Christmas,  you  know.  Bess  was 
naughty,"  she  added,  to  explain. 


SURFACES  31 

M.  du  Frettay  gazed  in  the  wake  of  the  naughty 
Bess  with  distinct  regret.  It  was  perfectly  per- 
ceptible. Why  could  she  not  enter  the  train,  like 
Adelaide?  Why,  like  Adelaide's  mother,  should 
she  return  to  town?  She  looked  more  adapted  to 
the  country,  had  she  allowed  him  to  explain.  .  .  . 
However, — March  fifteen. 

On  the  Holmer  platform,  which,  though  limited 
in  size,  was  a  very  smart  one,  brand-new,  ash-strewn, 
and  smelling  of  paint,  du  Frettay  was  properly  pre- 
sented to  the  Duke's  brother,  younger  son  of  the 
reigning  family,  and  exchanged  a  few  words  with 
him. 

"You  come  for  the  huntin"?"  said  Iveagh,  with 
an  expression  of  dogged  sulks  upon  his  countenance, 
his  eyes  shifting  watchfully  in  Adelaide's  direction. 
He  was  twenty-two  at  most,  and  built,  for  an 
islander,  very  lightly. 

"I  am  come,"  said  du  Frettay,  in  his  nimble  tone, 
"for  anything  I  can  get.  But  above  all,  I  believe, 
to  know  Mrs.  Redgate." 

"Oh."  Iveagh's  sulky  eyes  shot  to  him.  "Yes, 
you'd  hardly  avoid  that,"  he  said  evenly,  "Mar- 
chant  bein'  in  her  pocket." 

"I  do  not  wish  to  avoid  it,"  Gabriel  explained. 


32  HATCHWAYS 

The  Duke's  brother  produced  what  might  be 
called  a  smile:  it  just  cancelled  his  determined  ill- 
temper  for  a  moment. 

"You  know  Trenchard,  don't  you*?"  he  pro- 
ceeded, clouding  again. 

"That  is,  I  have  met  him.     My  father  knew." 

"Did  he?  Where?"  He  struck  at  the  "h"  in 
this  word,  Gabriel  noted,  more  than  any  island 
tongue  he  had  yet  come  across. 

"In  Morocco  first,  and  later  in  Marseille,  and  at 
last  in  Paris,"  he  answered. 

Iveagh,  again  slightly  abating  his  dreariness, 
turned  over  the  list. 

"This  is  a  fool  of  a  place,"  he  said,  to  du  Frettay's 
surprise.  "However — take  what  you  can  get,  in 
this  life." 

"I  intend  to,"  said  Gabriel. 

"You  ride?"  was  Iveagh's  next  remark.  He  was 
still  carefully  noting  Adelaide's  movements  in  the 
distance. 

"Anything  I  can  find,"  said  Gabriel. 

"It's  only — Marchant's  nothing,  of  course.  Red- 
gate's  nothing  to  speak  of.  You'd  better  come  up 
in  the — Dash! — all  right." 

He  was  cut  off  by  a  hail  from  Adelaide,  who,  in 
the  interval,  had  met  her  handsome  father,  and,  as 


SURFACES  33 

it  were,  renewed  acquaintance,  rather  unfortunately. 
She  had  better  not  have  attempted  it.  Their  scene 
was  loud.  Iveagh  marched  off  with  an  easy  step 
to  take  his  destined  part  in  it,  which  would  not,  du 
Frettay  imagined,  be  a  noisy  one.  He  had  an  un- 
emphatic  intonation,  with  a  curl  to  it,  difficult  but 
not  disagreeable  to  the  attentive  foreign  ear. 

"I  say,  your  sandbag's  bleedin',"  he  called  back 
to  Mrs.  Redgate,  in  the  act  of  leaving  the  station. 

"Oh,  Iveagh, — get  a  needle!"  she  returned,  her 
gentle  tone  perturbed  to  passion  almost,  by  this  last 
undeserved  calamity.  It  was  too  true.  Froebel 
(or  whoever  it  was)  had  not  sewn  those  sandbags 
up,  according  to  his  usual  strict  method.  Being 
too  roughly  hoisted  from  the  trolley  to  the  cart,  one 
of  them  had  broken  a  seam,  and  determined  at  once 
to  lay  down  all  its  burdens,  then  and  there,  with  a 
sigh  in  the  muddy  road.  We  make  no  apology  for 
the  metaphor.  There  is  nothing,  unless  Death,  to 
equal  for  inevitability  fine  heavy  sand,  once  it  be- 
gins to  exude.  It  poured,  it  lapsed,  it  fled  away. 
The  sack's  hours  were  numbered.  The  top  of  it  was 
already  bending  languidly,  the  whole  generous  bulk 
seemed  to  dwindle  and  faint, — when  Iveagh  and  the 
needle  returned  together,  in  the  nick  of  time.  A 
needle,  in  a  brand-new  country  station,  would  have 


34  HATCHWAYS 

seemed  even  to  Gabriel's  ingenuity  a  difficult  thing 
to  find :  yet  this  sulky  young  man  found,  offered,  and 
disappeared  finally  with  the  mocking  and  impatient 
Adelaide. 

Thereupon,  the  flow  of  the  sack's  life  was  as- 
suaged, the  two  gentlemen  doing  first-aid,  while 
Mrs.  Redgate  sewed  up  the  wound.  Little  had 
been  actually  lost, — Gabriel  congratulated  her 
gravely.  He  was  thoroughly  amused  by  now,  con- 
tent to  accept  anything,  take  anything  as  entertain- 
ment, in  this  quaint  new  country  world.  Her  busi- 
ness-like seriousness  over  the  sacks  amused  him  as 
much  as  Adelaide's  contempt,  the  porter's  polite  per- 
plexity, and  the  Professor's  intense  discomfort  in  a 
situation  so  palpably  absurd. 

Gabriel  adored  absurd  situations  in  life,  so  long 
as  he  was  freely  allowed  to  find  them  so.  He 
adored  them  whether  they  included  himself  or  not. 
And  Mrs.  Redgate,  for  all  her  seriousness  over  "Ger- 
trude's" property,  allowed  him,  accepted  with  com- 
plete understanding  all  his  jests.  He  even  caught 
her  laughing  herself,  when  the  convalescent  sack  was 
comfortable,  carefully  dumped  in  the  cart,  and  lean- 
ing its  pathetically  crooked  cap  against  the  rest. 

"I  suppose  I  can  trust  them  to  ride  alone  from 
here  to  Holmer,"  she  said  to  Gabriel.  And  again 


SURFACES  35 

— "I  don't  know  why  they  make  me  think  of  pigs." 

"Because  their  only  virtue  is  to  be  corpulent," 
confided  Gabriel,  "and  they  are  aware  of  it.  When 
corpulence  is  threatened, — crac!  there  is  pathos. 
Real  pathos,  the  only, — look  at  him  supported  by 
his  comrades."  They  laughed  again.  "Shake- 
speare could  do  that  sack,"  said  Gabriel.  "Or  pos- 
sibly— Lafontaine." 

"A  fable,  yes."  As  the  Professor  mounted  first 
into  the  dogcart,  she  added — "Do  you  like  things?" 

"I  love  things"  said  Gabriel.  "If  for  nothing 
else,  to  be  ridiculous.  That  consoles  me,  who  am 
less  so." 

"Oh!     Are  you  quite  sure?" 

"Perfectly.     Do  you  read  French,  Madame?" 

"Yes,  and  speak  it  badly.  YOU  will  find  most  of 
us  the  same." 

"Then  I  shall  teach  you  all,"  said  Gabriel,  fol- 
lowing the  Professor  into  the  dogcart.  "If  I  stay 
long  enough." 

The  next  instant,  saluting,  they  left  her  in  the 
road. 


Ill 

THE  FACTS 

ERNESTINE  REDGATE,  aged  thirty-two,  was  not 
"gracious"  the  least, — she  was  sensible.  She  had  a 
sensible  husband,  aged  forty-five,  and  they  took  the 
fact  that  they  had  no  child  with  equanimity.  Her 
London  acquaintance  was  remarkably  large:  she 
knew  everybody,  more  or  less,  and  she  had  the  knack 
of  being  there  when  things  of  note  were  happening. 
As  for  her  own  "things,"  nobody  ever  knew  why 
they  went  off.  There  was  no  particular  reason  for 
it,  in  herself  or  her  surroundings.  She  had  not  been 
a  particularly  clever  girl,  she  was  certainly  not  in 
the  common  sense  of  the  word  "ambitious,"  above 
all  socially.  She  was  not  swimmingly  "sympa- 
thetic" to  all  sorts  and  kinds.  She  was  not  seduc- 
tive— to  any  kind,  one  might  say.  She  was  every- 
thing, at  the  period  of  which  we  write,  which  nobody 
had  predicted  of  her.  She  was  everything,  and  she 
was  nothing,  in  a  manner  of  her  own :  perhaps  there 
was  a  grain  of  mystery  in  it, — like  the  nightingale. 

36 


THE    FACTS  37 

Her  descent  no  one  had  troubled  to  track,  beyond 
the  fact  that  she  was  northern,  vaguely:  possibly  of 
the  industrial  north.  The  unpretentious  energy  of 
her  was  northern, — her  stability,  in  business  and 
friendship, — and  that  staid  serenity  of  demeanour 
Sir  George  called  "afternoon."  If  she  and  Rick 
Redgate  had  ever  been  in  love  with  one  another, 
nobody  found  it  out.  The  Duchess  of  Wickford 
said  there  was  no  billing  and  cooing  in  their  estab- 
lishment, and  gave  it  as  ground  of  her  approval. 
Yet  the  Redgate  couple  matched,  at  least.  Neither 
obliterated  the  other,  when  they  appeared  in  con- 
cert :  both  were  in  demand.  Rick, — who  wrote  arti- 
cles, regularly,  for  quite  good  papers, — might  be 
said  to  be  the  more  popular.  He  had  attractive 
oddities,  and  said  quaint  things.  Rick's  wife  had 
no  oddities,  or  none  at  all  easy  to  detect.  "Nesta," 
as  he  called  her,  was  not  a  character, — a  figure  still 
less.  Nesta  was  merely  necessary:  and  Rick,  lack- 
ing her,  seemed  to  grow  cumbrous  and  ill  at  ease. 

To  look  at  she  was  tallish  and  straight,  square- 
shouldered  in  the  middle  English  style,  in  figure 
neither  gaunt  nor  exuberant.  She  was  personable, 
pleasant,  as  she  should  be.  She  would  have  looked 
extremely  well  in  officer's  uniform:  and  it  really 
seemed  a  pity,  once  one  had  the  idea,  and  in  view 


38  HATCHWAYS 

of  the  quiet  official  position  she  habitually  assumed, 
she  could  not  wear  one.  As  it  was,  she  was  far  too 
wise  to  attempt  erratic  styles  in  clothes.  She  found 
little  things  about  London  that  suited  her,  and  at 
times,  with  a  smile  to  her  intimate  friends,  exhibited 
a  complete  new  dress.  "Rick  likes  it,"  she  would 
say,  of  one  of  these  efforts,  at  the  season's  opening, 
— Rick  having  volunteered  such  praise,  of  course. 
Laying  herself  out  for  notice  or  flattery  was  about 
the  last  thing  Ernestine  could  be  said  to  do.  Con- 
sequently, men  and  women  liked  her  equally. 

She  had  the  somewhat  unfair  advantage,  in  the 
eye  of  the  world,  of  an  old  acquaintance  with  the 
Wickford  family.  She  knew  the  Duchess  Gertrude, 
as  has  been  hinted,  well.  She  had  known  Ger- 
trude's husband, — that  is,  he  had  been  memorably 
gracious  to  her,  once  or  twice,  as  a  young  married 
woman.  She  knew  Gertrude's  own  relations,  the 
Oxboroughs,  quite  well  enough  to  realise  by  how 
many  degrees  Gertrude  was  the  best  of  them.  She 
knew  the  present  young  representative,  and  his 
brother,  Lord  Iveagh  Suir,  when  they  were  school- 
boys at  Eton.  She  knew  Adelaide  Courtier,  whom 
for  years  the  Duchess  had  been  trying  to  induce 
Wickford  to  marry,  fruitlessly.  She  knew  Lise 
Elphinstone,  now  in  India,  with  whom  Iveagh  was 


THE    FACTS  39 

— to  his  mother's  ideas — perpetually  and  idiotically 
in  love.  She  knew  in  short  the  Wickford's  set, 
their  intimate  set,  not  their  London  swirl.  She  was 
in  the  Duchess's  confidence,  about  her  stupid  sons. 

She  was  moreover, — and  this  exhibits  Ernestine 
— in  the  sons'  confidence  also;  to  what  extent,  their 
mother  had  no  idea. 

Wickford  came,  and  sat  in  her  drawing-room,  in 
the  morning  when  she  did  not  want  him,  and  said 
explosive  things  about  marriage,  which  no  Duke  of 
the  realm  should  say,  and  just  avoided,  owing  to 
Mrs.  Redgate's  proximity,  saying  explosive  things 
about  Adelaide  also.  That  Wickford  did  not  re- 
gard Ernestine  as  extremely  married, — as  aggres- 
sively married, — was  obvious  in  his  remarks.  Nor 
was  it,  she  was  given  to  understand,  that  Wickford 
did  not  want  to  be  married,  nor  even  that  he  did 
not  intend  to  be,  in  his  own  good  time.  It  was 
merely  that  his  mother  did  not  know  about  it.  His 
mother  did  not  know  about  the  kid,  either  (Iveagh 
was  the  kid).  His  mother  was  a  good  woman,  and 
all  that.  He  wished  he  was  out  of  it  (probably 
the  Peerage).  He  wished  the  kid  could  get  to 
Africa,  and  forget  that  girl.  He  wished  he  could 
write  his  book  (something  statistical  and  very  dull) 
in  peace.  He  wished  (once  or  twice  and  in  a  very 


40  HATCHWAYS 

low  tone)  his  father  was  alive.  A  man's  father 
understood, — about  girls  and  those  things,  anyhow. 

Ernestine,  who  was  not  a  "good  woman  and  all 
that,"  presumably,  did  not  at  once  make  a  party  for 
the  young  Duke,  her  best  acquaintance,  invite  a  new 
and  dazzlingly  attractive  girl  to  meet  him,  and  so 
cut  out  her  dear  friend  by  marrying  Wick  over  his 
mother's  head,  as  she  could  easily  have  done.  She 
let  him  talk,  and  attended,  so  far  as  she  could  follow 
his  lines  of  thought.  He  was  extraordinarily  bad 
at  expressing  himself,  and  always  had  been  from  his 
school-days.  Iveagh  also  was  an  amazingly  bad 
hand  in  conversation, — quite  inconceivably, — ex- 
cept on  the  subject  of  Lise. 

Lise,  Iveagh's  lily,  his  saint,  was  married;  but  it 
made,  as  he  did  not  trouble  to  explain  to  Ernestine, 
— though  his  mother  harped  on  it, — no  difference. 
She  had  captivated  his  Irish  soul — the  Suirs  were 
Irish — in  maidenhood,  and  he  swore  by  her  perfec- 
tions to  all  time.  Nobody  sang  like  Lise,  spoke  as 
she  did,  looked  so  adorably,  stirred  so  exquisitely, 
sat,  rose,  kneeled,  breathed,  and  laughed, — just  like 
her.  She  had  curled  herself  into  Iveagh,  into  the 
very  core  of  his  being,  while  she  played  to  him,  in 
the  candle-light,  Irish  songs.  Three  years  since, 
when  both  were  under  twenty, — but  what  then? 


THE    FACTS  41 

And  what  now1?  Need  a  man  forget  her,  merely 
because  she  married  Elphinstone,  and  left  the  hemi- 
sphere where  Iveagh  corporeally  dwelt?  There 
was  no  sense  in  forgetting,  since  he  loved  remember- 
ing best.  He  had  not  shot  himself, — Wickford  had 
saved  him, — but  he  still  did  not  think,  in  spite  of 
all  his  brother's  "jawing,"  it  would  have  been 
wrong.  Iveagh  was  the  perfect  lover,  because  he 
was  quite  natural.  He  was  as  un-self -conscious  as 
Wickford,  and  as  most  well-descended  Irish  people. 
He  was  very  plain,  like  Wickford,  cannily  and  com- 
pactly made,  sober  and  circumspect  in  the  things  of 
life, — like  Wickford, — always  excepting  Lise.  In 
that  department  madness,  the  true,  inexpressible, 
mystical  Celtic  madness,  permanently  hung. 

Ernestine  admitted  that  a  pair  of  ordinary-fea- 
tured, unheroic  sons  like  Wickford  and  Iveagh  were 
hard  on  the  Duchess.  Indeed  it  was  not  only  as  a 
duchess  it  was  hard  on  her.  Gertrude  was,  as  a 
woman,  monumentally  maternal.  She  was  made 
so,  never  stopped  for  a  minute.  Now,  it  struck 
Ernestine,  though  it  is  possible  and  even  necessary 
to  some  women  to  be  continuously  maternal,  it  is 
not  possible  to  have  a  couple  of  grown-up  sons  in 
a  state  of  flat  filiality  all  the  time.  More  especially 
Irish  sons,  with  extremely  natural  manners,  which 


42  HATCHWAYS 

rarely  did  them  justice  in  women's  society,  occa- 
sional hot  tempers,  and  alarmingly  soft  hearts.  The 
Duchess  was  striving,  especially  in  Iveagh's  case, 
after  an  impossibility.  Wickford,  with  all  the 
conscience  of  an  eldest-born,  with  Iveagh  and  the 
estates  alike  weighing  his  poor  soul  down,  was  a 
blessing  to  his  mother,  and  everything  he  ought  to 
be,  now  and  then. 

It  may  have  been  because  Ernestine  never  dealt 
with  them  in  the  maternal  vein,  any  more  than  in  the 
married  one,  that  the  Suir  boys,  in  society,  were 
found  so  constantly  at  her  side.  Nor,  of  course, 
was  she  sisterly, — Iveagh  would  have  hated  that, — 
she  was  merely  Ernestine  and  nice  to  them. 

Consequently — we  tremble  to  state  it — at  twenty- 
two  and  twenty-eight  respectively,  the  Suir  boys 
liked  Mrs.  Redgate  far  better  than  their  own 
mother,  which  was  a  dreadful  state  of  things,  but 
occurs  much  oftener  in  the  world,  at  the  age  of  evo- 
lution and  sensibility,  than  many  mothers  are  aware. 
Youth  is  a  ticklish  thing,  the  influences  that  work 
its  changes  incalculable.  The  touch  that,  at  eight- 
een, would  be  wasted  utterly,  will  at  nineteen  send 
the  subject  racketing  through  change  after  change 
with  the  startling  effect  of  a  kaleidoscope.  In  other 
cases  complete  abstention  from  touching  is  the  only 


THE    FACTS  4S 

hope.  To  judge  how  to  touch,  and  whether,  is,  of 
course,  the  parental  privilege.  But,  when,  in  the 
next  world,  pastors,  educators,  godfathers  and 
friends  speak  up,  the  natural  authority  will  certainly 
be  amazed  by  their  possession.  Parents  (if  paren- 
tal) cannot  know,  by  their  posture  they  are  debarred 
from  it.  Youth  goes  seeking  in  strange  fields,  tres- 
passing, trampling  and  pirating  invariably.  It  will 
not  stay  at  home.  This  is  no  more  than  its  right, 
in  the  strict  ordering  of  our  nature's  "jungle  law," 
• — and  people  like  Ernestine  grasp  it. 

Besides,  she  liked  Gertrude's  boys.  So  did  Rick 
like  Iveagh, — Wickford  was  apt  to  bore  him.  He 
called  him  a  dreary  beggar,  and  added  that  the  eld- 
est sons  of  distinguished  people  almost  invariably 
were  so.  He  also  bothered  Nesta,  said  Rick.  He 
came  too  often,  and  he  stayed  too  long.  At  one 
time,  when  he  was  most  anxious  about  Iveagh,  he 
was  constantly  hanging  about.  Wickford' s  preoc- 
cupation about  Iveagh  seemed  to  Rick  always  a  lit- 
tle odd, — almost  embarrassing.  Why  not  slack  off 
a  bit,  said  Rick,  and  let  the  young  fellow  go  his  own 
way,  being  no  fool? 

"There  would  not  be  much  of  Iveagh  left,  if  Wick 
had  done  that,"  said  Ernestine,  in  the  non-committal 
tone  she  used  domestically. 


44.  HATCHWAYS 

"What,  that  shooting  business*?"  Rick  frowned. 
"You  know,  I  always  suspect  'em  of  exaggerating, 
— the  Paddies  do.  A  boy  like  that  can't  have 
meant,  seriously,  to  take  his  life." 

"He  was  probably  nervous,"  said  Ernestine  after 
an  interval.  "And  he  only  had  a  bicycle-lantern. 
He  might  have  missed." 

She  still  spoke  non-committally :  but  Rick  dis- 
covered that  she  disagreed  with  him.  Later, 
though,  when  he  looked  at  Iveagh,  the  shooting- 
business  bothered  him  again.  And  when  he  saw  the 
two  brothers  together,  jerking  remarks  at  one  an- 
other in  the  worst  of  English,  with  their  backs  half- 
turned,  and  making  no  attempt  at  all  to  be  agree- 
able to  his  wife, — he  found  it  still  harder  to  believe 
the  dramatic  scene  by  bicycle-lamplight  had  ever 
taken  place  at  all. 

Rick's  family  had  lived  for  generations  in  and 
about  the  little  town  or  big  village  of  Holmer  Hatch 
in  Berkshire;  indeed  they  had  been  known  there 
long  before  the  Wickfords;  for  it  was  only  on  her 
husband's  entrance  into  office  that  the  Duchess,  then 
young  and  notable,  took  to  inhabiting  Holmer 
House.  The  Duchess,  whose  married  mission  it  had 
been  to  rout  out  and  red  up  things  that  had  been 


THE    FACTS  45 

misused  and  overlooked  in  the  dark  period  of  her 
predecessors,  having  had  a  go  (we  regret  to  be  driven 
to  such  terms)  at  Castle  Wickford  and  the  Irish  ten- 
antry, and  having  been  completely  baffled  and  borne 
down  by  the  soft  atmosphere  of  contented  incom- 
petence that  breathes  across  that  beautiful  land, 
turned  her  attention  in  despair  to  the  oddments  of 
English  property,  and  thenceforth  kept  it  there. 
Holmer,  she  informed  her  husband,  was  a  sweet 
place,  and  had  been  strangely  neglected.  The 
house  was  ugly  and  uncomfortable,  the  park  shabby 
and  stodgy,  the  place  was  out-of-the-way  with  few 
trains  to  it,  and  those  at  most  unfashionable  hours, 
— still,  such  simple  obstacles  are  merely  inspiring  to 
a  vigorous  mind.  Much,  she  told  the  Duke,  might 
be  done  for  Holmer.  It  might  be  "made,"  as  a 
residential  district. 

She  proceeded  to  make  it,  the  Duke  being  too  busy 
to  attend  to  her.  She  made  everything,  even  a  sta- 
tion and  railway  time-table  eventually:  not  by 
means  of  money,  for  the  Suirs  were  anything  but 
rich,  but  by  the  power  of  personality.  She  made 
the  grounds,  she  made  the  drive,  she  made  the  motor 
high-road.  She  even  made  the  Duke  and  her  silly 
sons,  all  three  sighing  for  Ireland,  live  at  Holmer. 
She  made  the  school  (for  which  the  sand)  and  the 


46  HATCHWAYS 

schoolmistress  (a  worthy  girl)  and  she  made,  inevi- 
tably, various  dissensions  and  seams  in  the  rural 
peace ;  because — alas — the  Duchess  made  favourites. 
She  had  a  benevolent  plan,  in  the  first  instance,  of 
making  Mrs.  Redgate,  then  young  and  new-married. 
Only  Mrs.  Redgate,  entering  her  defences  in  the 
first  half-year,  made  friends  with  her  instead. 
Thereafter  the  Duchess  laid  by  her  fashioning-tools, 
in  the  case  of  Ernestine :  borrowed  receipts  from  her, 
received  her  in  gardening-clothes,  told  her  all  her 
troubles,  and  took  lessons  from  her,  imperceptibly, 
upon  how  to  entertain. 

The  Duke's  death,  which  shook  the  Duchess's 
whole  well-built  being  far  more  than  she  ever  ad- 
mitted to  the  world  at  large, — for  she  draped  her- 
self at  his  demise  superbly,  regarding  the  shattering 
blow  to  her  private  prospects  proudly  and  steadily 
as  a  loss  to  the  nation, — gave  a  fresh  impulse  to  this 
remarkable  friendship  with  a  younger  woman,  a 
person  of  no  pretension  at  all.  It  was  a  fact  that, 
during  the  first  years  of  her  loneliness,  the  Duchess 
sought  Ernestine  much  more  than  Ernestine  the 
Duchess.  It  was  even  rather  awkward  for  her 
young  neighbour  at  times.  Ernestine  was  indepen- 
dent, and  had  no  wish  at  all  to  be  flooded  and  pur- 
sued by  the  whole  new  department  of  society 


THE    FACTS  47 

Gertrude  represented,  above  all  by  that  "Oxborough 
gang"  with  whom  Gertrude  was  by  birth  bound 
up,  and  of  whom  she  was  a  shining  light.  The  Ox- 
boroughs  were  ponderous  and  pugnacious, — hoofs 
and  horns, — and  Ernestine  liked  her  hands  free.  It 
was  not  that  she  dreaded  patronage,  being  by  nature 
incapable  of  being  patronised:  it  was  simply  she  dis- 
liked being  hustled  and  walked  upon  by  a  number 
of  people  for  whom  she  had  no  use.  It  was  an  in- 
finite relief  to  her  when,  after  a  prolonged  quiet  re- 
sistance on  her  part,  Isabel,  the  sister-in-law,  gave 
out  as  her  astonishing  judgment  that  she  was  an 
artificial  little  lay-figure,  all  clothes;  and  the  Ox- 
boroughs, — leaving  her  to  poor  Gertrude,  whom 
widowhood  had  sadly  weakened, — barged  off  (to 
borrow  a  useful  image  from  their  nephews'  vocab- 
ulary) in  another  direction,  snorting  and  shoulder- 
ing aside  more  modest  craft. 

The  Duchess,  thus  left  alone,  shone  in  her  true 
light,  which  was  not  really  disagreeable,  as  the  many 
innocent  comments  hitherto  recorded  upon  her  will 
bear  witness.  She  was  a  "useful  woman,"  and 
would  have  been  a  nice  one,  if  she  had  been  content 
to  let  others  exist  usefully,  or  uselessly,  according 
to  their  ideas.  She  was  extremely  generous  on  a 
comparatively  small  income;  only,  reckoning  the 


48  HATCHWAYS 

resources  of  others  with  fearful  exactitude,  she  re- 
quired them  to  be  generous  in  a  just  proportion. 
They  must  do  no  more,  nor  less,  than  that: — else 
the  Duchess  really  could  not  think  highly  of  them, 
nor  ask  them  to  tea. 

She  was,  also, — really  by  no  fault  of  hers, — a 
rude  woman:  rude,  of  course,  in  the  name  of  that 
ill-treated  female,  Truth.  Further,  she  was  stiff- 
necked  beyond  belief,  above  all  when  (owing  to  a 
slight  oversight)  fate  or  her  following,  her  dear  son 
Wickford  above  all,  proved  her  wrong.  Once 
really  launched  on  an  ill-judged  course  of  her  own 
choosing,  the  Duchess  could  be  stupid:  we  shall  have 
occasion  later  to  exhibit  this.  Otherwise  she  was 
quite  a  clear-sighted  person:  was  to  be  found  right 
in  the  middle  and  well  to  the  forefront  of  all  the 
charitable  movements,  local,  national,  or  interna- 
tional, that  were  justice-seeking  and  righteous, 
whether  popular  or  not:  and  expressed  herself  in 
public,  especially  impromptu,  ten  times  better  than 
Wickford  junior  could  ever  have  done,  in  this  world 
or  the  next. 

Thus  much  of  the  grande  dame  who  sat  upon  the 
society  of  Holmer  Hatch,  at  the  period  when  M.  du 
Frettay,  cheerful  of  tongue  and  spirit,  easy  in  his 
impudent  national  bearing  of  indifference  to  Duch- 


THE    FACTS  49 

esses  and  dairymaids  alike,  so  long  as  they  failed  to 
please  his  private  taste,  was  ushered  in  among  its 
ingredients.  He  rapidly  picked  up  all  accessory 
details  about  her:  indeed,  he  had  some  idea  he  had 
known  all  about  her  in  advance.  She  was  much, 
he  gathered,  what  anyone  of  intelligence  from  across 
the  Channel  would  have  guessed.  It  was  only  her 
sons,  as  belonging  to  her,  who  disturbed  him  a  little, 
— faintly  deranged  his  fixed  ideas. 

"The  boys,"  as  Sir  George  called  Wickford  and 
Iveagh, — titled  elements  of  the  British  Peerage, — 
dropped  in  at  Professor  Marchant's  forest  lodge  the 
first  morning ;  not  at  all  as  if  it  was  the  proper  thing 
to  do,  nor  exactly  because  they  wanted  to  see  Pro- 
fessor Marchant,  nor  precisely  because  they  were 
curious  about  Professor  Marchant's  French  visitor; 
Gabriel,  to  his  regret,  was  unable  to  make  out  any 
generalisation  from  their  probably  polite  proceed- 
ing as  to  the  habits  of  English  society  at  large. 
They  just  came.  Iveagh,  having  looked  at  du  Fret- 
tay  in  the  station,  brought  his  brother  along  to  look 
at  him  too.  They  appeared,  sat  about,  chaffed  one 
another,  exchanged  news,  and — especially  in  the 
person  of  Iveagh — asked  questions.  They  asked 
questions  about  Marchant's  young  forest,  and  about 


50  HATCHWAYS 

the  mechanical  drawings  on  which  Gabriel  was  en- 
gaged. They  both  said  Why"?  and  What?  more 
times  than  is  customary,  in  France,  at  first  acquaint- 
ance; and  said  it  with  the  h  a  little  prominent,  in 
fact,  in  front  of  the  rest.  They  found  out  a  quan- 
tity of  Gabriel's  past  history,  not  at  all  intentionally 
on  his  part,  and  when  Iveagh  asked  casually — 
"Why  had  he  come  across*?" — he  very  nearly  told 
him.  All  but  disclosed  a  secret, — a  French  one : 
brought  himself  up  with  a  jerk.  .  .  .  They  had 
quite  common  clothes  on,  and  dirty  boots.  They 
were  respectful  to  the  Professor, — here  was  some- 
thing to  notice!  Undergraduates,  in  England,  are 
respectful  to  Professors  with  a  great  P.  Good! 
Dukes,  in  England,  are — Dukes  do — Dukes  say — 
Well,  when  Wickford  was  quite  gone,  du  Frettay 
remembered  with  a  start  that  he  was  one.  And 
what  are  you  to  make  of  a  society  which  introduces 
its  foremost  figure  to  you  like  that? 

They  left  again  with  no  courtesies,  beyond  that 
of  proposing  to  du  Frettay  to  walk  back  with  them, 
and  "pick  up"  Mrs.  Redgate;  a  proposal  which, 
owing  to  his  business  and  the  fact  that  it  was  raining 
hard,  he  refused. 

"Come  to  lunch,"  added  Iveagh.  "Mother  isn't 
there." 


THE    FACTS  51 

Wickford  had  the  grace  to  raise  his  eyebrows  at 
this, — otherwise  that  was  literally  all  the  evidence 
as  to  the  Suir  boys'  notable  mother  he  gathered  from 
them. 

Du  Frettay  refused,  of  course,  yet  more  distinctly. 
It  was  barely  a  decorous  proposal,  since  their  lady 
mother  was  not  at  home,  and  he  had  not  formally 
made  the  family's  acquaintance.  He  was  older 
than  either  of  them,  and  knew  perfectly  and  com- 
pletely what  to  do.  Only,  when  they  had  quite 
gone,  whistling  to  a  dog  or  two,  Gabriel  rather  re- 
gretted his  decorum.  There  was  that  (in  Iveagh 
especially)  which  destroyed  decorum,  and  con- 
science too.  Marchant,  though  clever  company, 
was  of  a  certain  age,  fixed  in  his  habits,  and  fussy 
slightly.  The  Suir  boys  possessed  a  fund  of  youth 
as  indifferent  and  impudent  as  Gabriel's  own, — in 
Iveagh's  case  more  so.  And  though  Wickford  the 
landowner  had  on  his  brow  certain  lines  of  enforced 
sobriety,  he  was  not  fussy  or  finicking, — oh  no! 
Outside  Mr.  Marchant' s  front  door,  he  walked  back- 
wards straight  into  a  pool  of  golden  mud  collected 
round  the  roots  of  one  of  the  baby  trees,  and  splashed 
himself  from  head  to  foot.  Whereupon  he  roared 
with  laughter,  and  his  very  much  younger  brother 
said— "You  ass!" 


52  HATCHWAYS 

In  short,  when  the  "boys"  had  vanished,  du 
Frettay  missed  them.  He  began  to  wish  he  had 
gone  with  them  and  the  dogs,  and  dashed  his,  dia- 
grams, even  at  the  risk  of  splashing  himself.  He 
remembered  also,  a  little  later,  that  "Sir-George" 
in  London  had  said  he  would  like  Iveagh.  Well, 
— "Sir-George"  was  a  gentleman  of  parts. 


IV 
THE  DUCHESS  DEALS  FAITHFULLY 

THE  Duchess  came  down  next  day,  by  the  right 
train, — the  other  one, — having  collected  opinions 
upon  Wickford's  City  speech  in  all  the  proper  quar- 
ters. Gabriel  had  forgotten  to  ask  after  that 
speech,  in  the  Duke's  own  society,  but  the  Duchess 
soon  let  him  know. 

He  came  upon  her,  all  unprepared,  in  Mrs.  Red- 
gate's  drawing-room,  where  he  was  paying  his  duty- 
call,  and  neatly  avoided  a  pitched  battle  with  her 
in  the  first  five  minutes.  His  manners  were  beaa- 
tiful;  still,  for  the  first  time,  absolutely  the  first 
since  landing,  he  felt  that  subtle  stirring  of  the 
national  fur  which  occurs  to  the  most  careful  of  us 
at  moments  on  the  foreign  soil.  Gabriel's  French 
fur,  well-brushed,  just  quivered  at  the  roots, — the 
Duchess's  English  spines  being  upright  during  the 
entire  interview.  Yet  she  fully  approved  of  the 
young  man,  she  told  Ernestine  afterwards,  being 
adroitly  flattered  by  him.  She  quite  saw  what 
George  meant, — George,  it  seemed,  had  written  to 

63 


54  HATCHWAYS 

her.  She  only  wished  the  boys  would  take  exam- 
ple by  his  innumerable  activities.  He  was  (the 
Duchess  was  inclined  to  think)  a  useful  member  of 
society  in  the  making, — if  only  he  would  abandon 
that  air-nonsense,  and  take  to  bridges,  like  dear 
Mark. 

And  here  it  will  be  wise  to  mention  that  Captain 
Mark  Elphinstone,  the  same  that  married  Lise,  was 
the  Duchess's  relative,  godson,  and  model  young 
man.  It  was  by  no  means  his  fault,  and  he  was 
only  too  happy  to  marry  Lise,  and  get  out  of  range 
of  the  Duchess's  patronage,  and  avoid  being  thrown 
continually  at  the  head  of  the  Duchess's  sons. 
Young  du  Frettay,  once  or  twice  that  morning,  re- 
minded her  of  dear  Mark, — a  certain  look  of  intent- 
ness:  the  difference  being  that  Mark  showed  it  all 
the  time,  and  this  young  fellow  from  Paris,  rarely. 

As  for  Gabriel,  he  contradicted  her  Grace  flat 
once,  in  his  most  attractive  manner,  and  refused  her 
information  steadily:  but  generally  speaking  he 
thought  her  "typical"  in  a  truly  exquisite  degree, 
and  let  her  alone.  It  is  an  immense  consolation, 
faute  de  mieux,  to  put  your  adversary  down  as 
"typical."  Think  of  the  ready  offence  of  telling 
the  other  party  he  is  behaving  in  a  "truly  English" 
manner,  or  a  truly  Oxford  (or  Birmingham)  man- 


DUCHESS    DEALS    FAITHFULLY         55 

ner,  or  yet  better  "so  like  the  family."  The  worst 
case  we  ever  noted  of  this  was  that  of  teacher  telling 
pupil  it  was  a  "thoroughly  Fanny-ish"  thing  to  do. 
This  last  bit  of  impudent  arrogance,  on  the  teacher's 
part,  should  be  added  to  the  lists  of  libel,  clearly, 
and  brought  before  the  law. 

"Lady  Wick," — to  use  the  young  people's  con- 
venient extension  of  the  Duke's  nickname, — was  a 
fair  woman,  rather  worn-out,  but  still  effective  ow- 
ing to  her  secure  carriage,  confident  address,  and  the 
uncompromising  directness  of  her  regard.  She  had 
the  insignificant  features  of  the  blonde,  and  fine 
hands,  with  a  few  quite  superb  rings  upon  them. 
She  had  been,  in  her  youth,  regarded  as  the  prettiest 
and  mildest  of  the  Oxboroughs:  but  middle-age,  a 
coronet,  and  above  all  a  widow's  veil,  had  changed 
all  that.  Still,  she  had  a  sweet  look  occasionally, 
during  a  few  playful  passes  with  Ernestine  for  ex- 
ample, for  which  du  Frettay  watched.  He  saw 
very  well  what  she  had  been,  and  that  of  course  al- 
ways goes  for  something.  If  the  Duchess  had 
guessed  the  attentive  young  foreigner  was  excusing 
her  in  any  degree  owing  to  her  past  good  looks,  she 
would  never  have  spoken  to  him  again.  At  her 
present  age,  she  had  quite  determined,  clothes  and 
appearance  were  nothing, — character  and  intentions 


56  HATCHWAYS 

were  all.  She  made  this  evident  in  dress  and  dis- 
course, with  men  particularly, — she  rested  unneces- 
sarily upon  it  at  times;  especially  since  that  vague 
autumnal  charm  of  hers  was  quite  handy,  and  some- 
times eluded  her  strong  control. 

Wickford's  speech,  she  informed  them,  had  been 
pretty  fair, — better  than  she  expected,  considering 
his  great  carelessness  in  co-ordinating  his  material. 
She  thought  Wickford  was  improving:  he  stam- 
mered less, — stood  better, — 

"Grand  Dieu!"  thought  Gabriel:  and  tried  to 
imagine  his  mother  venturing  to  speak  of  him  in 
such  a  manner  in  a  stranger's  hearing.  She  was, 
however,  he  gathered,  proud  of  Wickford, — proud 
of  what  he  represented,  and  what  he  ought  to  be. 
What  Wickford  was,  Gabriel  imagined  he  knew 
already  a  good  deal  better  than  the  Duchess,  though 
he  had  not  been  greatly  struck  by  the  elder  Suir. 
He  simply  took,  in  that  matter,  the  prerogative  of 
one  of  Wickford's  own  generation.  To  her  younger 
son,  she  never  even  alluded,  and  when  Mrs.  Red- 
gate  did  so  once,  looked  cold.  Cold  or  worried,  it 
was  hard  to  say  which.  Maternal  duty  over- 
clouded her.  The  remark  concerning  her  family's 
relative  disadvantages,  after  Gabriel's  departure, 
was  the  nearest  she  approached  to  the  subject. 


DUCHESS    DEALS    FAITHFULLY        67 

Finally,  as  to  the  expected  hospitality, — George 
was  George,  and  of  course  she  invited  Gabriel.  She 
invited  him  immediately,  the  second  thing  she  said. 
She  might  be  said  to  claim  him.  Owing  to  a  very 
full  time-table,  the  following  month,  he  had  better 
leave  the  Marchant  place  at  once,  and  come  to  her. 

"I  am  with  Mr.  Marchant  for  this  week,"  said 
Gabriel  blandly.  "I  have  promised  him." 

"Oh.  .  .  .  You  are  not  on  business*?" 

"No,  Madame." 

An  interval.  Well  then,  he  had  better  fill  in  the 
intervening  period  somehow  or  other,  and  come  to 
them  in  February.  It  was  a  pity,  because  Wickford 
would  be  busy  then.  As  for  the  interval,  he  had 
better — (she  debated  how  to  dispose  of  him  safely) 
— he  had  better  come  to  Ernestine. 

"Merci  infmiment,"  said  Gabriel.  He  looked  at 
Mrs.  Redgate,  who  simply  smiled,  that  nice  smile  of 
hers,  with  just  one  hint  of  girlish  mischief  in  it. 
They  exchanged  in  that  look  a  complete  understand- 
ing. Ever  since  it  had  been  Gabriel's  fate,  that 
morning,  to  enter  Hatchways  ground,  he  had  been 
longing  for  nothing  so  much  as  an  invitation,  just 
as  Sir  George  had  said.  Still — of  course — this 
would  never  do!  If  it  were  only  for  Lady  Wick's 
instruction,  Gabriel  could  not  have  this. 


58  HATCHWAYS 

"A  thousand  thanks,"  he  said.  "I  have  to  be  in 
London,  as  it  occurs,  these  few  next  weeks.  I  have 
some  business  to  manage  for  my  principals  at  the 
Offices." 

"For  your  Chief?"  said  the  Duchess.  "Which 
offices?" 

"The  Admiralty." 

"What  business?"  said  the  Duchess. 

Now,  it  may  have  been  the  total  lack  of  a  pre- 
liminary ^,  but  the  Duchess's  "which"  and  "what" 
were  singularly  different  from  her  son  Iveagh's. 
Gabriel  had  no  inclination,  nor  yet  the  smallest  in- 
tention, of  telling  her  what  his  business  was.  He 
temporised  prettily,  skirmished  about  in  dialogue, 
and  said  smart  things. 

The  lady  of  the  manor  could  not  understand  him. 
She  tried  to  take  hold  of  sense  in  what  he  said,  to 
seize  plain  facts,  but  he  was  unseizable.  Yet  he 
seemed  to  be  stating  things,  plenty  of  them,  and  he 
spoke  remarkably  good  English.  It  was  then  that 
she  made  up  her  mind  that  dear  Mark's  unvarying 
intentness  was  preferable.  That  solid  ground  is 
preferable  to  volatile  air,  she  added  to  the  convic- 
tion. She  put  him  down  as  a  young  man  from 
Paris,  simply,  during  the  whole  of  that  interlude. 
She  was  herself  betrayed  into  rudeness, — direct  in- 


DUCHESS    DEALS    FAITHFULLY        59 

civility, — which  she  had  not  at  first  intended.  So 
in  short — M.  du  Frettay  scored. 

However,  she  secured  something.  Gabriel  would 
come  to  her,  by  the  usual  train,  on  a  certain  date,  and 
Iveagh  should  meet  him.  The  Duchess  liked  to 
look  ahead.  If  he  could  by  any  means  dislodge 
George, — could  he  tell  her  what  George  was  really 
doing'?  M.  du  Frettay,  portentously  serious,  dared 
not  say.  Would  he  undertake  to  uproot  George, 
and  bring  him  down  simultaneously  for  a  country 
rest1?  M.  du  Frettay,  with  frivolous  blue  eyes 
turned  to  Ernestine,  begged  to  be  excused  such  re- 
sponsibility. 

"What  is  he  doing?"  said  the  Duchess.  "Stupid 
man !  I  believe  Ernestine  knows." 

"We  none  of  us  know,"  said  Ernestine. 

"Isabel  does  so  want  to  meet  him,"  said  the 
Duchess.  Isabel  was  Lady  Oxborough. 

"Poor  Isabel,"  said  Ernestine.  "I  hope  she's 
better,  Gertrude.  Oh,"  she  added,  "there's  Rick." 

So,  with  Rick,  the  interview  concluded.  Rick, 
bulky  and  beaming,  with  a  clever  head,  relieved 
guard,  taking  the  Duchess  on  in  capable  style. 
Mrs.  Redgate  and  M.  du  Frettay,  leaving  them  to 
hammer  at  parochial  affairs,  took  a  turn  about  the 
Hatchways  grounds. 


60  HATCHWAYS 

"Ouff!"  said  Gabriel,  when  he  was  outside  the 
drawing-room  windows,  which  constituted  the  way 
into  the  garden.  He  had  a  fair  excuse  for  saying 
"ouff !"  for  the  faint  spring  air  creeping  out  of  the 
hazel  copses  was  delicious.  But  only  a  fair  excuse, 
since  he  had  just  left  the  Duchess  in  the  drawing- 
room. 

"Those  are  my  five  larch-trees,"  said  Ernestine. 
"And  Professor  Marchant  says  I  must  cut  the 
crooked  one  down!" 

But  there  was  a  little,  little  dimple  in  the  cheek 
nearer  du  Frettay  as  she  said  it.  Was  that  the 
answer  to  his  "oufl"  concerning  her  dear  friend? 

Hatchways  was  lovely — lovely — lovely.  No 
words  even  of  Gabriel's  own  tongue  could  be  good 
enough.  French  words  sprang  up  in  him,  delicate 
epithets,  suggestive  turns,  in  prose  or  verse.  All 
the  epithets  were  pretty  ones,  and  described  what  he 
saw  precisely:  yet  they  did  not  serve.  He  saw  at 
once  what  every  intelligent  invader  is  willing  to 
admit,  the  individual  genius  of  the  land  invaded. 
And  Ernestine  at  his  side,  without  saying  anything 
to  remember,  or  seeming  the  least  remarkable,  cen- 
tralised and  perfected  these  wandering  influences. 
Everything,  he  was  somehow  sure,  that  England 


DUCHESS    DEALS    FAITHFULLY        61 

has  both  of  strange  and  sweet,  was  represented  in 
her. 

"But  what  a  Heaven!"  he  said,  in  vigorous 
fashion,  stopping  short  at  the  entrance  to  the  wood- 
land path. 

"People  like  it,"  she  said.  "People  who  come 
down." 

Yes,  that  was  her  spirit,  not  proprietary  so  much 
as  intendant,  for  others.  For  anyone, — wherever 
the  English  exclusiveness  was,  it  was  not  here. 
Hatchways  was  inclusive,  its  arms  were  wide.  Du 
Frettay  noted  his  hostess's  own  beautiful  arms  in 
her  simple  dress, — it  was  the  only  personal  beauty 
of  hers  that  reached  him,  that  day,  since  he  thus 
figuratively  expected  it.  They  were  strong  for  pro- 
tection, not  for  mastery.  There  was  no  hint  about 
her  of  aggressiveness,  of  any  of  the  kinds,  class  ag- 
gressiveness, sexual,  or  national.  She  appeared  con- 
tent, but  not  an  enclosed  contentment.  Even  the  in- 
nocence he  was  given  to  expect  of  an  Englishwoman 
was  not  "cloistered,"  as  her  Puritan  poet  said.  It 
was  large,  and  expanding.  All  her  presence  pro- 
claimed a  tranquil  growth,  like  a  forest  tree. 

All  the  same  she  was  a  little  shy,  or  retiring:  and 
so  was  Hatchways.  One  felt  abnormally  settled 
there,  surrounded.  How  it  was,  or  whither  to  be 


62  HATCHWAYS 

sought, — whether  in  the  sleepy  time  of  year,  the 
heavy  earth,  the  dripping  trees,  all  plants  tucked 
away  in  winter  quarters  and  clothing,  so  that  one 
longed  to  snuggle  like  them  into  the  moss, — whether 
in  that  not  far-distant,  never  far-distant  sea,  sigh- 
ing and  sucking  at  the  coastline,  the  stranger  could 
not  say.  Du  Frettay  had  seen  the  wrinkled  back 
of  that  sea-serpent  from  far  above ;  he  had  noted  the 
silver  ribbon  of  the  Manche,  with  its  foamy  frill, 
and  speculated  on  the  difference  it  might  make,  the 
difference  it  was  said  to  make,  in  national  and  im- 
perial propensities.  Now  he  felt  the  difference, 
that  was  all :  it  crept  into  his  consciousness.  Selfish 
— content  with  themselves — of  course  they  were! 
So  were  the  angels,  secure  in  Paradise.  No  wonder 
other  invaders,  Normans  and  Romans  in  the  past, 
having  got  so  far, — reached  Hatchways, — seen  Mrs. 
Redgate, — troubled  to  go  no  further.  Why,  for  his 
own  part  .  .  . 

"Can  I  really  come  here1?"  said  Gabriel  suddenly. 
He  would  not  have  thought  of  so  inviting  himself 
anywhere,  in  France. 

"I  think,"  said  Ernestine,  quite  easily,  "you  had 
better  go  to  Gertrude  first.  She  expects  it." 

"Get  it  over*?"     Pause.     "Are  there  many,"  he 


DUCHESS    DEALS    FAITHFULLY         63 

pursued,  having  reached  the  wood,  "already  taking 
treatment*?"  She  glanced  round  at  him.  "On 
your  premises." 

"Visitors?  No,  not  this  week.  Rick  and  I  are 
alone." 

"Are  you  not  dull,  alone*?"  he  asked  slyly. 

Ernestine  shook  her  head.  "I  could  wish,"  she 
laughed,  "we  were  duller.  Christmas,  you  know. 
We're  not  clear  of  a  parish  Christmas  yet.  And 
Gertrude  has  been  away  so  much " 

"And  you  do  her  duties." 

"Some  of  them, — she  lets  me.  I  have  her  chil- 
dren to-morrow."  She  added — "You  know  about 
that." 

"Yes,  I  am  coming  to  that.  Miss  Courtier  asked 
me." 

"Do,  because  Rick  can't.  Rick's  so  rushed  at 
the  beginning  of  the  year.  If  you  have  nothing  to 
do,"  she  added. 

"Nothing  more  useful*?"  said  Gabriel  with  a 
reminiscence. 

"Nothing  nicer,"  said  Ernestine. 

"I  have  nothing  nicer  to  prevent  my  coming  to 
Hatchways, — no.  .  .  .  Madame, — listen.  I  am 
supposed,  while  here  in  England,  to  be  resting." 


64  HATCHWAYS 

He  had  her  full  glance  at  once.  "Have  you  been 
ill?" 

"Not  precisely.  I  was  run-down."  He  plumed 
himself  on  this  expression.  "I  think  I  was  very  run- 
down, unhappy, — enough  to  need  a  cure.  When 
I  have  been  running  anew  over  London,  to  the 
Offices,  all  these  weeks,  my  condition — ouff !" 

"You  must  go  to  Gertrude  first."  She  smiled  at 
his  expression,  as  of  a  rueful  child.  "Will  you  help 
me  in  a  plot,  Monsieur*?"  she  asked.  "I  want  Sir 
George.  I  don't  want  him  to  go  to  Holmer.  I 
think  he  is  really  tired  of  London, — he  hates  it, — 
he  told  me :  and  he  likes  coming.  Once  I  had  him, 
and  he  said  it  did  him  good." 

"He  is  consumed,"  said  du  Frettay  fervently, 
"with  a  passionate  longing, — pining  for  Hatchways 
whenever  he  thinks  of  it.  But  so  shall  I  be  by  then 
undoubtedly.  Madame,  can  I  not  come1?" 

"Really!"  said  Ernestine,  and  said  no  more  for  a 
time.  They  were  walking  in  the  wood,  and  since 
the  visitor  chose  the  way,  walking  was  difficult. 
"You  can't  mean  you  are  afraid  of  Gertrude,"  she 
presently  observed,  looking  at  his  fine  young  figure 
thoughtfully. 

"No,  no,  I  am  not  shy." 

"I  didn't  suspect  you  of  being  shy." 


DUCHESS    DEALS    FAITHFULLY       65 

"No?  Had  it  not  struck  you?  But  it  is  grow- 
ing on  me,"  said  Gabriel.  "It  is  in  the  air, — in  the 
blueness.  I  shall  be  as  shy  as  Sir-George  soon,  and 
long  like  him  to  conceal  myself — with  your  as- 
sistance." 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  said  Ernestine.  "No  French- 
man does." 

"Not  want  to  hide?     Why  not?" 

"Because  you  are  all  made  to  show  yourselves." 

"Tiens!"  said  Gabriel.  He  had  suspected  it: 
still,  it  pleased  him  to  hear  it  on  a  woman's  tongue, 
as  it  pleased  him  this  woman  should  say  it.  She 
realised  exteriors,  anyhow, — not  all  of  a  saint,  only 
part.  Only  the  pleasant  part. 

He  got  out  of  the  wood  on  the  wrong  side,  with 
considerable  stooping,  holding  back  the  hazel 
branches  for  Ernestine  to  do  the  like.  Then  he 
crossed  a  bit  of  marsh,  where  both  had  to  step  cau- 
tiously: then  by  a  plank  across  a  charming  runnel 
over  grasses  called  a  ditch:  and  so  through  an  un- 
mended  gap  into  a  lane  by  a  larch-wood. 

"Now, — where  are  we?"  he  demanded,  pleased 
with  his  prowess. 

"On  the  Duchess's  property,"  said  Ernestine. 

"Zut!"  said  M.  du  Frettay. 


V 
ADELAIDE  DOES  OTHERWISE 

AFTER  that  Gabriel  plunged.  He  went  head  first 
into  that  mixed  Holmer  society,  as  the  Suir  boys 
seemed  to  require  him  to  do.  He  made  no  distinc- 
tions, since  they  did  not.  He  called,  in  Iveagh's 
company,  on  several  people  the  following  day,  in- 
cluding the  schoolmistress  (for  the  Duchess)  and 
the  gamekeeper  (for  Wickford)  and  the  grocer  (to 
buy  chocolate,  which  was  inferior)  and  the  Rev. 
Canon  Lionel  Oxborough,  four  villages  away  (the 
same  being  the  next  best  to  a  Bishop  Iveagh  could 
do  for  him,  after  thought). 

The  day  after  that,  failing  Iveagh  engaged,  he 
began  to  call  alone,  of  necessity.  He  wanted  to  ob- 
serve manners,  and  at  Marchant's  Lodge  he  saw 
nobody  except  its  master,  and  at  times  the  ubiquitous 
"boys."  Most  people  he  found  at  their  own  houses, 
and  everybody  at  Mrs.  Redgate's,  which  was 
treated  by  the  young  people,  he  discovered,  as  a 
kind  of  club.  Only  the  Courtier  household  he  failed 
with,  since  Adelaide's  mysteriously  absent  mother 
made  overtures  at  the  family  mansion  a  little  dif- 

66 


ADELAIDE    DOES    OTHERWISE        67 

ficult.  Gabriel  gathered  there  had  been  no  open 
breach,  only  Mrs.  Courtier  found  prolonged  breath- 
ing-places in  London  desirable  for  her  health:  the 
while  Adelaide,  with  a  certain  truculent  valour  he 
learned  to  admire,  managed  her  handsome  father, 
and  lived  down  public  opinion,  in  the  intervals. 
Before  anyone  could  really  gossip  dangerously,  Mrs. 
Courtier  came  back  (by  the  usual  train)  and  smiled 
for  a  period  upon  the  domestic  hearth. 

Gabriel  collected  this,  the  genuine  scandal  of  the 
country-side,  not  from  Ernestine,  nor  from  Iveagh, 
— who  did  not  willingly  mention  Adelaide, — but 
from  Iveagh's  mother  when  he  went  to  tea.  The 
Duchess  did  not  figure  badly  as  a  gossip,  once  one 
learnt  to  manage  her  on  her  own  lines.  She  liked 
Gabriel  to  tea, — he  continued  to  make  her  think  of 
Mark  at  intervals,  nor  could  she  deny  him  certain 
attractions  of  his  own.  She  had  to  admit  all  kinds 
of  things  about  him  finally,  as  well  as  good  manners 
and  good  looks,  which  by  the  Duchess's  philosophy 
mattered  least.  It  is  probable  though,  in  the  case 
of  Gabriel  as  of  the  original  Mark,  they  went  for 
something.  M.  du  Frettay  was  a  handsome  young 
man,  dare-devil  and  debonair  in  appearance,  and  in 
mere  personal  effectiveness  he  beat  most  of  the  local 
squires  at  Holmer  hollow,  including  Rick  and  the 


68  HATCHWAYS 

Duke.  He  "knew  how  to  behave,"  certainly  more 
pleasantly  than  the  Duchess's  Oxborough  brothers, 
and  a  good  deal  more  prettily  than  her  Suir  sons. 
Indeed, — having  mastered  behaviour  in  all  its 
branches  by  the  age  of  seventeen,  forgotten  his  man- 
ners deliberately  in  camp  and  at  the  schools,  picked 
them  up  again  and  brought  them,  during  a  short  in- 
tensified experience  of  the  social  world,  to  a  high 
pitch  of  perfection, — Gabriel  was  a  little  puzzled 
by  the  Suir  boys'  lack  of  any  manners  at  all.  Com- 
bined with  their  friendliness,  which  attracted  him, 
their  bluntness,  especially  to  women,  often  gave  him 
shocks. 

Gabriel  regarded  the  Suir  boys,  of  course,  as  Eng- 
lish ;  he  lumped  them  together,  a  still  worse  mistake 
to  those  who  really  knew  Wickford  and  Iveagh,  and 
proceeded  to  generalise  from  them,  steadily,  about 
England  at  large. 

They  reminded  him  of  the  fact  that  the  English 
fail  everywhere,  not  in  material,  but  in  technique. 
Their  material,  in  character  as  in  food-stuffs,  is  very 
fine.  One  has,  however,  but  to  dwell  (and  dine) 
for  a  short  period  among  them,  to  realise  the  French 
genius  for  manipulation,  for  presentment,  even  of 
an  inferior  thing.  The  English  attitude  "not  worth 
it"  to  an  inferior  thing,  is  hardly  known  in  France. 


ADELAIDE    DOES    OTHERWISE        69 

Technique  can  always  make  it  worth.  This,  ap- 
plied to  cookery,  is  a  commonplace:  but  it  goes 
deeper,  to  character.  At  the  worst  you  learn  young, 
across  the  Channel,  how  to  present  yourself, — at  the 
very  worst.  At  the  best,  such  as  Gabriel — 

Look  at  Iveagh.  It  was  ages,  that  is  two  months, 
before  owing  to  a  remark  of  Mrs.  Redgate's,  Gabriel 
learnt  the  essential,  almost  staggering  fact  about  him 
that  he  was  desperately  in  love  with  a  married 
woman, — a  fact  which  would  simply  have  saved 
him,  once  for  all,  in  du  Frettay's  eyes.  .  .  .  Look 
at  Wickford.  It  was  not  till  Gabriel  had  stopped 
knowing  Wickford  altogether,  and  gone  back  to 
France,  that  he  solved  the  problem  of  his  constant 
preoccupation,  and  absences  from  Holmer  headquar- 
ters, by  the  facts  that  he  was  sorting  material  and 
practising  oratory  (at  which  he  could  not  possibly 
shine),  not  in  the  interests  of  that  Hereditary  House 
of  his,  whose  privileges,  at  the  time,  were  gravely 
threatened:  but  in  those  of  the  docile,  or  Unionist 
(questionably  absurd)  element  in  his  native  island. 
That  he  was,  in  short,  the  very  Orange-man,  to  whom 
Sir  George  had  once  slyly  alluded.  And  Gabriel 
had  been  near  him,  at  his  elbow  for  weeks!  Such 
opportunities  of  sympathy  and  confidence,  of  self- 
improvement, — of  satire, — completely  missed! 


70  HATCHWAYS 

Well — then  there  was  the  little  matter  of  the 
Duke's  marriage  with  Miss  Courtier.  Gabriel, 
thanks  to  the  Duchess,  was  extremely  well  up  in  the 
details  of  this  nice  arrangement,  carefully  planned 
to  suit  all  parties,  well  discussed  by  Wickford's 
mother,  with  Miss  Courtier's,  whenever  that  lady 
happened  to  be  about.  The  Duchess  had  a  strong 
partisanship,  closely  resembling  partiality,  for  Mrs. 
Courtier,  whose  domestic  troubles  had  her  full  sym- 
pathy. She  was  a  charming  woman  (Gabriel 
learnt),  much  set  upon  by  Fortune.  She  acted 
cleverly  too,  her  spirit  in  so  constantly  going  to  Lon- 
don being  only  equalled  by  her  saintly  good  sense 
in  coming  back.  Her  lineage  also  was  what  it 
should  be,  and  her  fortune  large.  All  of  it  was  set- 
tled on  her  only  child,  whose  father  also  intended  to 
dower  her  handsomely, — dear  Adelaide  having,  with 
quite  irreproachable  motives,  kept  in  with  each  side. 

M.  du  Frettay's  trained  intelligence  followed  all 
this  perfectly.  It  was  a  situation  to  be  treated  with 
tact,  evidently,  but  his  course  was  clear.  Having 
said  all  the  right  things  to  Wickford's  mother,  and 
noted  her  gratification, — having  observed  at  every 
turn  the  easy,  almost  daughterly  bond  that  united 
Miss  Adelaide  to  Holmer  House, — he  proceeded, 
with  all  courtesy  and  caution,  to  congratulate  her 


ADELAIDE    DOES    OTHERWISE        71 

and  the  Duke.  .  .  .  With  what  result^  Wick- 
ford,  with  a  little  twitch  of  mouth  that  was  habitual 
with  him,  left  an  interval,  and  changed  the  subject. 
Miss  Courtier,  at  the  pointed  praises  of  Wickford 
that  were  handed  her,  and  accompanying  hint  at  her 
happy  fortune  as  his  noble  bride,  enquired  with  a 
laugh — "where  on  earth  he  had  picked  that  up*?" 

"From  the  Duchess,"  said  du  Frettay.  "Perhaps 
I  intrude*?"  he  added  cheerfully:  and  finished,  with 
an  expression  he  had  been  recently  cultivating — 
"My  mistake." 

"A  bit  off  it,  for  once,"  chaffed  Adelaide,  who 
had,  however,  changed  colour  a  little.  "Wick  and 
I  are  old  friends,  M.  du  Frettay.  He  told  me  his 
scrapes  at  school.  Not  that  he  had  many, — he  was 
such  a  good  little  boy.  Iveagh  was  a  sight  more 
interesting." 

"Ah."  Gabriel  took  it  in.  "But  surely,"  he 
hinted,  "if  the  alliance  were  presented,  a  chose  faite, 
you  could  not  set  yourself  against*?" 

Adelaide  blushed  again.  "Really,  you  have 
ideas!  It  can't  be  settled,  unless  I  settle  it.  The 
chose  would  be  faite  by  me, — Mother  and  the 
Duchess  might  wish  themselves  blue  in  the  face.  I 
should  decide  as  I  thought  right  in  the  matter,  with- 
out their  putting  their  oar  in." 


72  HATCHWAYS 

"Oar,"  said  Gabriel,  noting  the  sporting  idiom. 
But  he  noted  absently,  for  he  was  perplexed.  The 
Duchess,  he  could  not  but  feel,  was  right,  and  more 
than  right.  A  handsome,  healthy  girl :  brilliant,  he 
presumed, — he  could  not  follow  all  her  expressions, 
but  her  way  of  talking  had  the  effect  of  wit:  "born," 
of  course, — her  mother  strung  the  "honourable"  be- 
fore her  name :  a  trifle  boisterous,  but  that  would  be, 
for  Wickford's  eminently  English  taste,  an  added 
attraction.  Certain  squireens  of  the  neighbourhood 
called  Miss  Adelaide  to  him  a  "flyer."  M.  du  Fret- 
tay,  as  a  flyer  himself,  felt  a  professional  sympathy. 
He  pressed  at  once  for  a  definition  of  the  term,  which 
he  assumed  was  complimentary. 

Only  of  course  the  last  thing  the  squireens  could 
do  was  to  define:  they  sniggered  merely.  Gabriel 
picked  out  a  fairly  intelligent  specimen,  Sam  Cov- 
erack,  and  with  great  and  careless  art,  brought  up 
the  subject. 

"Addy's  everything  her  own  way  nowadays,"  said 
Mr.  Coverack.  "Since  Lise  dropped  out,  I  mean. 
Lise  Fitzmaurice, — she  married,  y'know." 

"Aha,"  said  Gabriel,  who  had  heard  of  Lise. 

"Lise  dished  Addy's  little  game  every  time,"  said 
Mr.  Coverack.  "Did  it  o'  purpose,  for  the  lark. 
You  ask  Mrs.  Redgate." 


ADELAIDE    DOES    OTHERWISE        73 

"Dished,"  murmured  Gabriel. 

"I'd  back  Addy  now  to  bring  down  the  Duke," 
said  Sam,  "in  spite  of  the  Duchess." 

This  was  delightfully  straightf 9rward :  though 
"bringing  down,"  in  such  a  case — well,  sporting 
again. 

"But  the  Duchess  upholds  the  union,"  suggested 
Gabriel.  "She  backs  it,  as  you  say." 

"That's  what  I  mean,"  grinned  Sam. 

"And  the  young  lady,  I  think,  is  not  adverse," 
said  Gabriel,  regarding  him  intently. 

"That's  your  idea,  is  it?"  said  Sam. 

"I  see."  Gabriel  smiled.  "You  mean,  if  her 
Ladyship  had  the  perspicacity  to  oppose,  she  would 
attain  her  objects  the  more  rapidly." 

"I  dare  say,"  said  Sam,  amazed  at  this  language, 
"that  is  what  I  meant." 

"Yes,  yes, — indeed,  our  side  also  I  have  heard 
examples — "  Gabriel  saw  an  objection.  "But 
your  Lord  Wickford  is  not  like  that.  He  has  not 
the  spirit.  No,  nor  the  other,  either.  I  cannot 
imagine  to  that  family  the  spirit  for  revolt,  for 
initiative, — for  passion  above  all." 

"Spirit1?"  said  Sam.  He  stared.  "Iveagh,  are 
you  alluding  to*?" 

No  more  was  said,  at  least  in  the  personal  vein. 


74  HATCHWAYS 

The  squireen  being  stupid,  and  of  course,  friends 
with  those  Suirs,  Gabriel  smoothed  it  over.  He  dis- 
covered rapidly  how  impossible  it  was  to  criticise 
either  of  the  brothers,  in  the  native  or  rustic  com- 
munity. Nor  was  it  tuft-hunting  (see  Thackeray's 
work)  the  least,  it  was  simply  because  everybody 
liked  them.  Gabriel  himself,  if  you  came  to  that 
— still,  of  course,  one  must  investigate. 

The  conversation  turned  on  hunting,  Sam  saying 
— really,  it  was  time  du  Frettay  got  an  idea  how 
things  shaped  in  the  hunting  field.  If  he  would 
take  Sam's  advice.  .  .  .  Gabriel,  knowing  Mr. 
Coverack  to  be  a  past  expert  in  the  national  sport, 
and  being  intent  on  doing  all  things  to  a  turn  as 
they  were  done  at  Holmer,  took  it  willingly. 

Thus  he  next  saw  his  little  world  on  horseback, 
and  certainly,  his  ideas  shifted  a  little.  Adelaide, 
it  was  true,  was  handsomer  than  ever,  adequately 
mounted  in  her  elegantly  simple  garb  of  cloth. 
But,  oddly  enough,  though  she  was  the  only  woman 
out  that  day,  in  an  excellent  humour,  and  more  than 
willing  to  be  gracious,  Gabriel  could  not  keep  his 
thoughts  upon  her.  He  was  a  judge  of  riding,  if 
of  nothing  else  in  the  day's  amusement,  and  the  Suir 
brothers,  not  to  say  the  horses  they  bestrode,  claimed 
his  strict  attention. 


ADELAIDE    DOES    OTHERWISE        75 

But  what  disturbed  his  ideas  yet  more  was  that 
Iveagh  detached  himself.  He  would  not  be  lumped 
with  Wickford  any  longer,  though  he  opened  the  day 
quietly  at  his  brother's  side.  A  hitherto  undreamed- 
of inspiration  radiated  from  Iveagh,  and  his  won- 
derful little  mare,  which  had  been  Lise's, — seized 
the  hearts  of  the  hunt,  and  carried  them  with  him 
when  the  moment  came.  It  was  not  only  that  he 
rode  superbly — Wickford  did  that  too.  Both  had 
been  born  to  the  saddle, — born  in  the  saddle,  one 
might  almost  say:  for  Iveagh  had  been  riding  some- 
thing or  other  in  Galway  at  three  years  old.  They 
both  had  the  slight  compact  nervous  make  of  the 
inevitable  centaur, — the  steady  eye,  strong  thigh 
and  light  hand, — but  Iveagh  had  more.  He  had, 
to  mention  nothing  else,  the  intense,  almighty  seri- 
ousness of  his  race,  when  engaged  in  this  particular 
sport,  or  art.  The  whole  of  his  ideas,  hopes,  faiths, 
including  the  Lise  department  of  him,  which  the 
little  mare  contributed,  were  strung  up,  concen- 
trated, consecrated  to  one  absorption  alone.  That 
the  absorption  was  a  little  yellow  fox  might  have 
seemed  to  du  Frettay  ridiculous,  had  not  his  ideas, 
hopes,  intentions  and  intelligence  been  concentrated 
on  doing  like  the  English,  looking,  and  if  possible 
thinking  like  them. 


76  HATCHWAYS 

For  it  will  barely  be  credited  that,  with  Lise's 
Emer  to  show  the  way,  and  Whiskylegs  (well- 
christened)  to  carry  him,  and  Wickford's  Playboy, 
third  of  the  line  and  name,  cantering  sweetly  at  his 
side,  M.  du  Frettay  still  thought  the  star  he  was 
following  was  an  English  one,  simply  because  it  was 
not  French ! 

It  is  true,  he  noted  few  peculiarities  new  to  him 
in  Iveagh  Suir.  His  accent  changed  a  little,  as  did 
Wickford's:  both  became  a  trifle  harder  to  under- 
stand. The  individual  music  of  their  tongues 
(which  du  Frettay  had  hitherto  put  down  as  Ox- 
ford, or  aristocratic)  stood  out,  minute  by  minute, 
in  greater  contrast  with  the  throaty  grunts  of  the 
squireens.  Since  both  were  slangy  at  the  best  of 
times,  this  meant  that  across  country  the  Suir  boys 
became  cryptic  completely.  It  was  hard  on  an  en- 
quiring Frenchman,  who  ached  to  pick  up  hunting 
terms.  .  .  .  Also,  the  English  huntsman  being  red 
in  the  face,  as  everybody  knows,  Gabriel  noticed 
that  in  great  heat  and  excitement,  Iveagh  turned 
pale.  He  was  really  intensely  pallid  at  one  point, 
when  the  dogs  were  baffled,  snuffing  round  a  horribly 
unsavoury  ditch:  sitting  Lise's  Emer  tense  and  rigid, 
one  hand  on  a  quite  impossible  gate, — most  of  the 


ADELAIDE    DOES    OTHERWISE        77 

other  riders,  apparently,  attending  to  him.  His 
small  grey  eyes  were  darkened  too,  and  languid:  he 
seemed  sleepy  a  trifle,  or  bored,  scanning  his  horse's 
neck  and  ears.  Not  long  after,  with  a  perfectly 
unintelligible  remark  to  his  brother,  he  circled  about, 
took  the  impossible  gate  and  the  unsavoury  ditch  in 
one,  to  Gabriel's  genuine  terror,  and  trotted  off 
peacefully  down  a  little  lane. 

Gabriel,  open-mouthed,  turned  to  the  Duke  for 
explanation. 

"The  mare's  had  enough,"  said  the  Duke;  and 
added  lower,  as  for  his  own  consolation — "The  boy 
he  is!" 

He  said  it  gravely,  but  with  the  little  twitch  of 
mouth  that  seemed  to  imply  humour.  Du  Frettay, 
retreating  to  Adelaide,  turned  over  these  things. 

The  "dogs"  found  soon  after,  so  he  had  not  im- 
mediate leisure  to  compare  impressions  with  Miss 
Courtier,  as  he  was  quite  longing  to  do,  for  she  was 
bound  to  be  behind-scenes  as  to  the  Suir  boys' 
peculiarities,  and  their  family  affairs.  The  Duchess 
gossiped  with  her,  and  Wickford,  if  nothing  else, 
was  a  close  companion, — Gabriel  was  growing  heed- 
ful, by  now,  with  the  term  "friend."  Also,  she  was 
always  kind  to  himself,  interested  in  his  difficulties, 


78  HATCHWAYS 

and  ready  to  patronise  and  instruct.  Gabriel, 
whose  nature  stood  no  patronage  from  man,  sub- 
mitted to  it  from  woman  willingly.  Indeed,  he 
often  acted  more  innocence  than  he  possessed,  in 
order  that  the  pretty  girls  of  the  district  should  tell 
him  things.  His  direct  bright-eyed  glance  had  the 
effect  of  innocence;  and  all  the  young  ladies  of  his 
society,  vigorously  discussing  him,  had  put  him 
down  as  younger  than  the  Duke. 

To  his  surprise,  when  Miss  Courtier  came  to 
realise  the  state  of  things  with  Iveagh,  she  changed 
colour  with  vexation,  reining  back  her  horse. 

"I  never  heard  such  nonsense!"  she  ejaculated,  in 
Wickford's  direction.  "A  run  like  this.  .  .  .  But 
that's  Iveagh  all  over,"  she  added,  rather  viciously. 
"Why  you  let  him — Emer  was  all  right." 

"I  can't  prevent  him,  if  he  chooses,"  said  Wick- 
ford. 

"An  Englishman,"  observed  du  Frettay,  "cares 
for  his  horse  as  his  mistress, — I  have  heard  that." 

Adelaide  giggled,  and  Wickford  very  slightly 
frowned.  Soon  after  he  rode  forward,  abandoning 
Adelaide  to  Gabriel. 

"I  never  knew  such  things  as  you  say,"  said  Ade- 
laide, turning  an  open  smile  to  him,  when  they  were 
alone. 


ADELAIDE    DOES    OTHERWISE        79 

"What  did  I  say?"  said  Gabriel. 

"Oh,  never  mind.  I  should  be  careful  with 
Wick,  though,  when  the  kid's  in  question.  That's 
a  tip,  and  I  make  you  a  present  of  it." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Gabriel,  "but  I  had  observed." 
He  proceeded,  with  Adelaide  in  this  unbending 
mood,  to  other  enquiry,  airing  such  little  points  of 
interest  as  had  come  up  during  the  day.  As  to  the 
question  of  the  hunting-complexion,  Miss  Courtier 
was  amused. 

"Pity  my  respected  father's  not  out,"  she  said. 
"He's  got  a  shade  might  suit  you."  Gabriel  was 
rather  shocked  by  this.  It  is  hardly  filial  in  a  fair 
girl,  of  exquisite  natural  colouring,  to  taunt  her 
father  with  his  deficiencies.  He  shifted  the  subject 
to  Iveagh's  huntsmanship. 

"Ride?"  said  Adelaide.  "Like  a  jockey,  doesn't 
he?  It's  hardly  respectable.  I  told  Lady  Wick, 
at  the  worst,  they'd  take  Iveagh  in  a  training-stable, 
— he  goes  light  enough.  Put  the  Duchess's  back  up, 
rather.  I  don't  see  why  he  shouldn't  make  his  liv- 
ing that  way  as  well  as  another,  if  he's  got  to." 

"Ah,"  said  Gabriel.  "But  has  he  got  to  make  a 
living?" 

"Oh,  rather!  A  younger  son,  you  know.  It's 
not  all  skittles  to  be  even  a  Duke,  in  these  days," 


80  HATCHWAYS 

said  Miss  Courtier  easily.  "Wick's  pretty  bothered 
about  things  at  times." 

"Aha,"  said  Gabriel, — his  little  sound  of  appre- 
hending. He  pondered  of  Dukes,  death-duties,  and 
the  democratic  reaction.  He  made  a  mental  note 
on  another  page,  as  it  were,  and  proceeded. 

"Then  what,"  he  enquired,  "is  Lord  Iveagh  to 
do?" 

"Stinks,"  said  Miss  Courtier. 

"Plait-il?"     Gabriel  was  caught  off  his  guard. 

"That's  what  the  boys  say.  You're  learning 
something  this  morning,  aren't  you?  Science,  and 
physics,  and  all  that.  He  was  rather  smart,  at  Eton. 
At  Oxford  he  played  the  fool, — came  a  cropper, — 
you  know  that,  don't  you?" 

Gabriel  knew,  he  had  heard  as  much  from  Mar- 
chant  already;  only  he  was  not,  somehow,  inclined 
to  seek  an  explanation  from  Adelaide.  Her  con- 
stant innuendoes  in  Iveagh's  direction  perplexed 
him, — some  clue  or  connection  was  lacking,  to  his 
logical  mind.  All  the  time  he  chaffed  with  her 
easily,  he  was  searching  about  for  it. 

"He  used  to  be  keen  on  collecting,"  pursued  Ade- 
laide. "Botany  and  so  on's  his  style, — he  calls  it 
something  different,  but  it  doesn't  matter.  What- 


ADELAIDE    DOES    OTHERWISE        81 

ever  you  say  you're  never  right  with  scientific  peo- 
ple, are  you?  Both  of  them  are  nuts  on  natural 
history — "  Gabriel  was  taxed,  really,  to  keejp  up 
with  her  images.  "Iveagh'll  travel,  probably." 

"To  be  sure."  Gabriel  grasped  this,  remember- 
ing what  Sir  George  had  said  anent  young  men 
whose  families  required  to  get  rid  of  them.  But 
why  should  Iveagh's  family  so  require? — young  as 
he  was,  and  useful,  certainly.  He  was  used  by 
everybody,  Gabriel  had  observed,  like  a  servant 
almost,  and,  though  odd  in  his  ways,  was  far  from 
incompetent.  There  was  room  for  a  boy  admittedly 
"smart,"  on  the  large  and  hampered  home  estate, 
either  as  secretary  or  overseer, — one  would  have 
thought.  But  this  was  England! 

"Does  his  mother  wish  him  to  travel?"  he  asked 
soon. 

"Oh,  Lord, — anything  to  get  rid  of  him,  I  should 
say."  Gabriel's  brow  knitted.  "Lady  Wick," 
pushed  on  Adelaide,  "has  had  enough  of  Iveagh,  be- 
tween you  and  me.  I  quite  agree, — it's  time  he 
cleared  off,  hanging  about  like  this.  .  .  .  Wick's 
not  so  sure." 

"Not  so  sure  he  should  go?     Why  not?" 

"Oh,    fussy.     He    says    it's    a    beastly    climate, 


82  HATCHWAYS 

wherever  it  is  they  want  him  to  go.  I  never  remem- 
ber names.  Wick's  a  donkey,  really, — he's  so 
nervous." 

"But  why  not,  for  his  brother*?"  reasoned  du 
Frettay.  "A  man  would  be." 

Adelaide  thought  differently,  but  she  said  nothing. 
She  was  looking  sulky,  which  really  implied  she  was 
debating  how  far  she  could  go.  She  held  plenty  of 
material,  only  it  was  private,  and  Wickford  was  a 
stickler  in  the  matter  of  confidence.  Yet  she  was 
not  above  the  temptation  to  gossip, — real  gossip, — 
with  so  handsome  and  pleasant  a  partner.  To  have 
a  new  man  of  any  kind  to  impress  with  her  knowl- 
edge of  the  Duke's  family  secrets  was  something. 
So  she  sulked,  looking  down.  M.  du  Frettay,  an- 
noyingly  at  his  ease,  rode  and  enjoyed  the  view. 

"Like  to  know  what  I  believe,"  she  said  at  last, 
pressing  her  horse  nearer  to  du  Frettay's.  "It's  only 
guess-work,  really,  for  Wick's  not  easy  to  see 
through  when  he  chooses  to  shut  up  on  certain  sub- 
jects. I  believe  he's  afraid  of  Iveagh  drinking,  if 
he  goes  out, — taking  to  drink,  you  know.  That's  in 
the  family,  as  it  happens, — and  people  in  the 
tropics  do." 

"Psst!"  said  du  Frettay,  startled.  It  was  a  bit 
of  complete  new  light  on  some  things  he  had  ob- 


ADELAIDE    DOES    OTHERWISE        83 

served,  and  Sam  Coverack  had  conveyed  to  him 
equally.  His  respect  for  the  Duke's  intelligence 
was  increased  at  once,  and  the  respect,  which  was 
already  there,  for  his  fraternal  affection  also.  He 
made  no  comment,  though,  whatever,  beyond  the 
single  exclamation.  To  Adelaide's  surprise,  and 
not  a  little  to  her  resentment,  he  "shut  up"  pre- 
cisely as  Wickford  did,  in  this  matter, — which  might 
be  almost  jocular,  she  thought, — of  Iveagh  drinking 
in  the  wilds. 

His  kind  of  Frenchman,  Adelaide  decided,  was 
disappointing.  Gabbler  as  he  was — as  all  of  them 
were — the  last  thing  she  had  supposed  of  him  was 
that,  thus  invited,  lured  to  the  most  suggestive  con- 
fidences, he  should  fail  to  "rise."  She  would  not 
have  thought  he  could  control,  even  if  he  would,  the 
spring  of  his  insensate  curiosity.  He  who  was  al- 
ways poking  about,  explaining  things  which  re- 
quired no  explanation,  displaying  jets  of  unexpected 
knowledge  of  common  friends,  highly  amusing 
under  their  foreign  colour  ...  it  was  flat  of  him, 
really,  to  fall  off  like  that ! 

Du  Frettay,  riding  home,  referred  himself,  then 
and  there,  to  Mrs.  Redgate  for  explanation.  He 
need  trouble  no  more  to  speculate,  since  she  held 
the  threads,  for  certain,  of  all  he  might  seriously 


84  HATCHWAYS 

need  to  know.  Should  he  need,  as  friend,  to  hear 
the  facts  of  Iveagh's  story,  she  would  not  fail  him. 
He  could  himself  have  produced  two  or  three  con- 
jectures, none  of  which  would  have  been  far  from 
the  truth  of  the  little  mystery.  Lise  was  not  there 
yet,  quite,  but  he  adumbrated  Lise.  His  experience 
adumbrated  another  woman  from  Adelaide's  man- 
ner to  Iveagh  simply,  persistently  impatient  and 
unkind:  from  her  darkened  brow  when  she  censured 
his  folly  in  dropping  out  of  the  sport  he  loved,  when 
the  best  run  of  the  season  was  in  progress.  Even 
for  the  Oxford  debacle^  otherwise  cropper,  the  dear 
distraction  necessary  to  account  was  there,  shadow- 
ing sweetly  in  the  whole  talk  of  this  district  con- 
cerning her.  What  else  was  there,  Gabriel  argued, 
that  the  world  holds,  to  divert  a  mart's  thoughts  from 
work  he  was  said  to  love,  and  sport  he  was  seen  to 
grace  so  perfectly?  Quite  apart  from  any  little 
stirring  of  sympathy  for  the  boy  so  derided,  reason 
arrives  at  these  things.  Du  Frettay,  a  man  who 
loved  his  work  with  almost  romantic  ardour,  cher- 
ished for  it  a  secret  devotion  beside  which  all  but 
the  greatest  and  deepest  passions  paled,  could  reason 
it  as  well  as  another. 

He  began  too,  clever  as  he  was,  to  suspect  the 
grouping,  as  well  as  the  goddess  or  elf  unseen:  the 


ADELAIDE    DOES    OTHERWISE        85 

phalanx  that  was  gathering  about  that  boy  to  protect 
him, — to  save,  in  the  only  real  sense  of  the  word, 
his  life.  And  in  that  faithful  phalanx,  Miss  Cour- 
tier was  not,  he  gathered :  nor  Iveagh's  lady  mother, 
could  it  be?  And  Wickford  was,  rightly  to 
Gabriel's  ideas:  and  Sir  George  the  good  lion,  prob- 
ably: and  more  sure,  more  natural,  more  right  than 
any, — Ernestine  Redgate  in  the  midst  of  it. 


VI 
HOLMER  IN  TRIBUNAL 

Miss  COURTIER  was  right,  at  least,  as  to  the  ma- 
terial side  of  affairs  at  Holmer.  Having  caught 
things  from  the  Duke,  at  odd  seasons  when  his 
natural  frankness  led  him  to  confide :  having  caught 
other  matters  from  her  mother,  when  that  lady  had 
been  sitting  and  sighing  for  a  period  in  the  Duchess's 
pocket:  and  since  this  practical  young  lady  consid- 
ered that  it  might  very  well,  at  some  future  time, 
concern  herself,  she  was  pretty  well  up  to  date  as 
to  the  condition  of  the  Ducal  finances. 

We  have  mentioned  in  passing  that  the  Duchess 
of  Wickford,  nee  Oxborough,  once  launched  on  a 
course  of  her  own  devising,  was  considerably  hard 
to  turn.  We  have  called  her  stiff-necked  in  certain 
situations,  such  as  when  her  son  presumed  to  man- 
age her.  Now,  the  Duchess's  own  fortune,  not  a 
prodigious,  but  yet  a  pretty  one,  was  settled  on  her 
younger  son.  During  the  short  period  of  Wick- 

86 


HOLMER    IN    TRIBUNAL  87 

ford's  minority, — he  was  nineteen  when  his  father 
died, — his  mother  had  had  all  things  in  her  hands, 
and,  with  due  respect  to  so  downright  a  lady,  had 
muddled  them  very  tolerably.  The  young  Duke, 
on  coming  to  his  own,  took  over  the  whole  direction 
of  his  much-embarrassed  heritage,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  his  mother's  own  property,  which  he  left  to 
her.  He  did  not  wish  to  do  so,  even  then,  knowing 
his  brother's  future  to  depend  upon  it.  He  had  an 
anxious  eye  that  way,  at  times,  in  the  years  that 
followed,  and  more  than  once  advisers  whom  he 
trusted  pressed  him  to  intervene.  His  mother  was 
given  to  sudden  enthusiasms,  in  life:  "elle  s'em- 
ballait,"  as  the  French  say,  readily  for  the  pic- 
turesque. This,  though  beautiful  in  life  and  love, 
is  not  encouraged  by  good  counsellors  when  applied 
to  financial  investment,  in  the  case  of  widowed 
ladies  of  just  adequate  means,  especially. 

Needless  to  say,  the  Duchess  stood  no  attempt 
at  intervention.  Wickford's  occasional  observa- 
tions, blunt  as  usual,  though  entirely  well-founded 
and  well-meant,  drove  her  ever  more  obstinately 
along  her  chosen  courses.  Never,  the  Duchess 
wished  her  son  to  observe,  had  she  admitted  inter- 
ference in  this,  her  peculiar  province. 

"My  father "  began  Wickford. 


88  HATCHWAYS 

"Your  father  never  laid  a  finger  on  me  in  my 
private  affairs,"  said  the  Duchess. 

She  lied:  but  really,  in  the  case  of  one's  own  son, 
one  has  to  disguise  the  truth  occasionally.  That 
there  are  cases  when  loyalty  to  one's  traditions,  and 
the  dignity  accruing  to  age,  urges  lying  to  one's  chil- 
dren, the  Duchess  was  convinced. 

Wickf ord  said  no  more ;  but  he  had,  by  the  age  of 
five-and-twenty,  very  complete  control  of  the  ragged 
remnant  of  the  family  fortunes,  and  its  history  both 
in  the  present  and  the  past.  Further,  boy  as  he  had 
been  before  his  father's  death,  he  had  been  entrusted 
with  certain  confidences  that  he  could  not,  in  his 
mother's  presence,  betray :  so  he  knew  she  lied,  per- 
fectly. His  father  had  not  only  attempted,  but 
succeeded  in  restraining  her,  just  where  he  was  fail- 
ing to  do  so.  He  left  the  matter,  with  youthful 
philosophy,  till  the  next  occasion  when  he  could  get 
in  a  word.  He  did  so  regularly,  once  a  year,  for  he 
was  a  conscientious  person:  but  to  little  avail. 

He  suspected,  when  the  smash  came,  it  would  be 
his  fault, — but  it  was  not,  fortunately:  it  was  the 
solicitor's  and  stockbroker's  between  them.  His 
mother  was  only  regretful  that,  doubtless  with  the 
best  intentions,  Wickford  had  not  dispensed,  once 
for  all,  at  his  father's  death,  with  old  Fullalove's 


HOLMER    IN    TRIBUNAL  89 

useless  services.  As  for  the  other  dotard — but  we 
will  let  that  sleep!  The  Duchess  became,  at  the 
upset  of  her  cherished  plans,  patient,  sorrowful  and 
resigned, — the  plaything  of  fortune.  She  retreated 
into  her  widow's  dignity, — having  two  sorts  to 
choose  from, — and  spoke  to  Iveagh  herself.  She 
did  not  allow  Wickford,  still  less  the  professional 
to  do  so.  This  was  his  mother's  affair. 

"I  have  no  doubt,"  said  the  Duchess  in  the  ma- 
ternal vein  to  Iveagh,  "that  your  brother  will  help 
you." 

"He  will  not,"  said  the  Duke  in  the  background. 
"I've  told  him  heaps  of  times  he  will  get  nothing 
out  of  me.  I  want  all  the  money  there  is,  and 
more." 

"I  am  glad,  Wickford,"  said  the  Duchess,  after 
a  pause  of  wondering  whether  she  had  not  better  at 
once  admit  the  truth  of  this,  "that  there  are  no 
strangers  present  to  hear  you  make  such  statements." 

"There's  all  that  needs,"  said  the  Duke.  He 
turned  a  page  of  the  book  he  was  reading  on  the 
chimney-piece  while  he  warmed  himself  at  the 
hearth. 

The  Duchess  looked  from  one  to  other  of  them 
as  they  stood  before  her  in  the  so-called  back-draw- 
ing-room, the  most  habitable  of  the  reception-rooms 


90  HATCHWAYS 

at  Holmer:  Wickford  at  the  hearth,  Iveagh  at  the 
window,  each  half -turned  away.  They  were,  as 
usual,  annoying  her  extremely,  not  in  anything  they 
said,  so  much  as  in  their  essence  and  general  attitude. 
What  was  more,  as  usual,  their  small  sensible  eyes 
gleamed  sympathy  with,  and  approval  of,  one  an- 
other. 

"You  had  far  better,"  she  resumed  to  Iveagh, 
"avail  yourself  of  my  old  friend  Sir  George's  ex- 
tremely promising  offer,  and  go  out  to  wherever  it 
is  with  him." 

"I  don't  see,"  said  the  Duke  in  the  background, 
"how  that's  to  make  a  living  for  him, — however!" 
He  put  an  elbow  on  the  mantelshelf,  a  masterpiece 
of  frightfulness  in  mixed  marbles,  as  were  nearly  all 
the  fittings  of  Holmer  House. 

"He  can  write  a  book,"  said  the  Duchess. 

"Yes,  and  who's  to  read  it?"  murmured  Iveagh. 

"I  will,"  said  Wickford  after  a  pause,  "granted 
it's  good  enough.  But  I'd  sooner  hear  ye  talk, — 
and  I'd  sooner  still  Sir  George  did." 

"Talked,  or  heard  him  talk*?"  snapped  his  mother. 
"Really  you  had  better  speak  better  yourself,  Wick- 
ford, before  you  try  to  direct  other  people." 

"I'm  not  trying  to  direct  him,"  said  Wickford. 

"You  are,"  said  Iveagh,  quietly  and  evenly. 


HOLMER    IN    TRIBUNAL  91 

"Well,  I  don't  suppose  for  a  minute  you'll  do 
what  I  direct." 

"No,  you  don't  suppose  that,"  said  Iveagh.  "It's 
the  difference."  His  eyes  strayed. 

"Iveagh,"  said  the  Duchess  monumentally,  "you 
are  in  an  extremely  obstinate  state  of  mind.  I  will 
not,  to  my  own  son,  say  sulky.  I  don't  know  that 
your  brother's  showing  himself  so  disobliging  makes 
things  any  better, — and  I  allow  for  some  disappoint- 
ment, in  this  matter  of  the  money.  Indeed,  the 

stupidity  of  that  man  Fullalove "  and  so  on, 

the  Duke  reading.  Iveagh  seemed  to  find  interest 
in  the  garden-view.  "I  shall  do  my  best,"  she  fin- 
ished, "in  strict  economy,  for  such  of  my  life  as  may 
remain,  to  remedy " 

It  was  not  intended  for  apology,  and  would  not 
have  become  so  probably,  had  her  sons  let  her  finish; 
but  Iveagh,  at  whom  she  might  have  railed  forever 
without  effect,  could  not  stand  even  the  semblance 
of  apology  from  his  mother,  especially  in  such 
terms.  He  and  Wickford  spoke  simultaneously — 

"I  never  supposed —     He  never  supposed — " 

Iveagh  was  husky,  so  the  Duke  got  the  word. 
"He  never  supposed  for  a  minute.  Mother,  he'd  be 
independent  of  the  ordinary  efforts  to  get  a  liveli- 
hood. Don't  think  it, — I've  seen  to  that.  Besides 


92 

which,  if  he  was  as  rich  as  Crcesus,  he'd  better  work, 
and  what's  more  he'd  have  to.  I'm  not  wishing  him 
Fortunatus  for  his  own  sake,"  said  the  Duke,  "nor 
myself  either,  God  knows " 

"You  can  speak  in  my  presence  without  swear- 
ing," said  the  Duchess.  "Well,  go  on.  Let's  hear 
what  you  propose  for  him,  if  it's  to  the  point." 

"I'm  not  lecturing  him,"  said  Wickford  hastily. 
He  turned  about,  book  in  hand.  "I  wish  for  him 
what  he  wants,  what  he's  wanting  at  this  minute" 
— Iveagh's  look  shot  round — "which  is  to  get  quit 
of  us  jawing  him,  jawing  at  him,  what's  worse.  A 
man,  worth  a  man,  knows  what  he  can  do  best,  when 
he  really  has  to  do  it.  It's  not  a  thing  in  which  you 
can  lead  anyone  by  the  nose " 

"If  he  had  chosen  to  work  at  the  proper  age,"  put 
in  the  Duchess,  "he  would  be  in  his  country's  service 
by  this  time." 

"Which  country?"  said  Iveagh:  only  he  spoke 
low.  He  was  unusually  non-politically-minded, 
for  one  of  his  birth;  and  though  his  rebellious  sym- 
pathies had  been  enlisted  young  in  the  nationalist 
cause,  Wickford  swayed  him.  Any  real  conviction 
swayed  Iveagh  easily.  He  hovered,  as  a  fact,  be- 
tween two  extremes, — extremes  being  essential  to 
his  being, — except  when  his  mother  took  the  ancient- 


HOLMER    IN    TRIBUNAL  93 

military  Oxborough  line.     Then  he  knew,  naturally, 
which  to  choose. 

"I'd  an  idea  he  liked  plants,"  pursued  Wickford, 
ignoring  the  cross  scent,  "and  that's  on  the  skirts  of 
Marchant's  business " 

"Mai-chant1?"  exclaimed  the  Duchess.  "What 
now?" 

"I  thought  you'd  got  to  there,"  said  Iveagh, 
across  her.  "There  or  thereabouts.  That  young 
forest  gets  on  your  mind  so,  whenever  you  see  Mar- 
chant,  at  least  when  I'm  there  too.  To  grow  an 
oak-tree  would  be  a  great  thing" — he  jerked  about, 
— "granted  you'd  half  a  life  to  spare  for  it.  About 
then  you'd  see  your  oak-tree  flower " 

"Oaks  do  not  have  flowers,"  said  the  Duchess, 
impatient  of  this  triviality. 

"Then  what  about  the  acorn*?"  rejoined  Iveagh, 
without  looking  at  her.  "However,  you  needn't 
trouble,  either  of  you.  I'll  not  go  to  Marchant,  and 
bring  up  young  forests, — no,  I'll  not " 

"I  see,"  said  Wickford.  "Then  what's  your 
idea?' 

"I  dare  say  I'll  go  with  Trenchard  presently, 
granted  he  shows  me  reason,"  said  Iveagh,  "and  goes 
to  the  right  place.  Not  just  to  get  out  of  your 
way " 


94  HATCHWAYS 

"Don't  lose  your  temper,"  said  his  mother. 

"Well,  it  does  look  like  dismissing  him,"  said 
Wickford.  He  added  lower — "Dismissing  un- 
tried." 

"Wickford,  if  you  begin  by  discouraging  his 
single  spark  of  natural  energy  and  initiative,  I  ask 
you,  where  shall  we  get  to*?"  said  the  Duchess. 

"I'll  go  now,  if  Mother  says  it,"  said  Iveagh, 
taking  her  aback. 

"I  never  said  I  wanted  you  to  go,"  she  said. 
"How  tiresome  you  are,  always  taking  offence.  If 
you  can  find  a  respectable  profession  at  home,  I'd 
sooner  you  stayed " 

"What'll  suit  you,  the  Church4?"  said  Iveagh: 
and  went,  by  the  garden  window. 

"He's  not  offended,"  said  Wickford,  when  he  had 
vanished.  "He's  hurt,  it's  not  the  same." 

"He's  extremely  absurd  to  be,"  said  the  Duchess. 
"I  can't  bear,"  she  pushed  on,  feeling  for  her  orig- 
inal dignity,  "a  proposal  from  a  person  like  George, 
who  really  might  be  said  to  condescend  in  making 
it " 

"Certainly,"  said  her  son  as  she  waited. 

"His  serious  proposal,  for  the  boy's  good,  being 
treated  like  that.  Childish  hug,  nothing  better. 
It's  intolerable." 


HOLMER    IN    TRIBUNAL  95 

"I  suppose,"  said  Wickford,  "you  proposed  it 
first." 

"And  why  do  you  suppose  that1?" 

"Well,  because  certainly  Trenchard  would  not 
jump  at  Iveagh.  Why  should  he? — there  are  bet- 
ter men." 

"Well,  and  now  you're  back-biting,"  said  the 
Duchess  after  a  pause, — she  had  prepared  herself 
for  another  line  of  argument.  "Wherever  will  you 
be  next,  Wickford?  I  don't  say  George  would 
jump,  or  whatever  your  expression  is,  at  your 
brother.  But  I  suppose  I  may  take  his  own  word 
he'd  be  pleased  to  have  at  his  side  a  son  of  mine?" 

"That's  what  I  mean,"  said  Wickford  quietly. 
"He'd  do  it  for  your  sake.  The  kid's  been  a  hand- 
ful, and  is  likely  to  be  still,  as  none  knows  better 
than  Sir  George." 

"The  discipline  would  be  extremely  good  for 
him,"  said  the  Duchess,  rather  acridly.  "George, 
in  his  fashion,  is  a  martinet." 

"I  know  it.  I'm  not  denyin'  it.  He'd  do  what 
he  could,"  said  Wickford,  changing  posture,  "but 
always  because  you  ask  it." 

"What,"  said  the  Duchess,  "is  the  object  of  talk- 
ing like  this?  Is  it  your  desire  to  throw  the  re- 
sponsibility on  me?" 


96  HATCHWAYS 

"It  is.  Sooner  than  on  Trenchard,  anyhow.  It's 
fairer  so." 

"Fairer?"     His  back  was  turned  to  her  again. 

"Certainly, — if  it  fails." 

"Wickford,"  said  the  Duchess,  after  a  fresh  si- 
lence, "you  are  doing  your  best  to  insinuate  things 
in  this  way,  simply  in  order  to  disturb  me.  You've 
tried  before.  -Just  as  though" — she  was  getting 
nervous — "in  this  wretched  business  of  Iveagh's,  I 
had  not  had  disturbance  and  worry  enough."  She 
waited,  but  still  he  was  silent,  an  elbow  on  the 
marble  shelf.  "What's  the  worst  you  think 
might  happen  to  your  brother,  in  my  old  friend's 
charge*?" 

"The  worst's  that  he'd  drink  himself  to  death," 
said  Wickfbrd,  in  an  equal  tone,  like  Iveagh's,  that 
sounded  indifferent. 

"You've  no  right  to " 

"And  the  best,"  said  Wickford,  "is  not  good 
enough  to  risk  that.  I'm  sorry  to  repeat  it,  Mother, 
but  I've  said  as  much  before." 

"You've  no  right  to  say  such  things" — she  was 
asseverating  anew. 

"I've  the  right  of  knowing  him.  You  needn't 
believe  I  like  sayin'  it.  Knowing  him — happening 
to  know  him  desperate " 


HOLMER    IN    TRIBUNAL  97 

"Nonsense!"  rapped  the  Duchess,  restored  to 
power.  "A  love-affair  at  nineteen, — calf-love, — 
nobody  dies  of  that."  Silence.  "Your  father  had 
plenty  at  that  age,  and  I  never  thought  the  worse 
of  him."  Silence.  "The  girl's  married, — married 
a  decent  man,  and  done  with,  thanks  to  mercy. 

Luckily  well  out  of  the  way,  owing  to "  She 

nearly  said — "owing  to  my  management."  As  a 
fact,  Lise's  engagement  to  the  ideal  Mark  had  taken 
her  distinctly  by  surprise.  "You  don't  suppose  her 
attraction,  at  half  a  sphere's  distance " 

"I  do  not  suppose, — I  know  it,"  said  Wickford. 

Once  more,  and  for  the  hundredth  time,  he  re- 
flected whether  he  could  tell  her  about  the  shooting 
incident,  and  the  other  evidence  of  Iveagh's  indif- 
ference to  life  he  held.  It  might  straighten  matters 
to  offer  such  direct  proof  of  his  assertions, — only 
Wickford  could  not.  To  Mrs.  Redgate  he  had  been 
able,  once  and  with  an  enormous  effort  to  do  so :  but 
entering  his  mother's  confidence  with  such  a  story 
baffled  him.  "The  kid  trusted  him  not  to" — that 
was  what  it  came  to.  And  besides — who  could  say 
how  his  mother  would  take  it:  in  shame,  anger,  or 
mere  impatience  and  disgust?  Each  was  equally 
impossible  to  Wickford's  feelings.  And  if  she  at- 
tacked Iveagh  on  the  subject,  conscience-driven, — 


98  HATCHWAYS 

Good  God — we  fear  Wickford  swore  again  in  spirit 
conceiving  it. 

He  was  not  exaggerating,  to  his  own  mind,  in  this 
pressing  anxiety  about  his  brother.  Iveagh  had 
always,  as  he  said,  been  a  "handful,"  capable  at  in- 
tervals of  outrageous  things.  He  was  born  an 
intransigeant) — it  was  all  or  nothing  with  him. 
Things  must  be  just  so,  for  Iveagh, — else,  let  others 
look  out.  In  his  first  youth,  no  doubt  owing  to  these 
implacable  inward  needs,  he  had  had  a  terrific  tem- 
per, and  only  his  father  had  been  able  to  manage 
him.  He  grew  past  that  stage  of  expressiveness, 
though  he  had  had  a  few  outbreaks  at  school,  enough 
to  amuse  Adelaide  and  the  outsider,  as  has  been 
seen.  He  did  well  at  Eton  in  his  latter  years, — 
since  his  needs  chanced  to  be  the  same  as  those  of 
the  authorities, — but,  quiet  as  he  was,  and  watchful- 
seeming,  such  as  knew  him  felt  the  nature  un- 
changed beneath.  Then,  just  as  he  was  done  with 
scholastic  rule,  settling  in  his  outlook,  taking  hold 
of  life  as  he  preferred,  and  preparing  to  build  stead- 
ily, with  a  delicacy  and  caution  inherited  equally 
from  the  paternal  stock, — Lise  Fitzmaurice  had 
come  home  from  school  in  France. 

No  more  was  needed  to  shake  the  structure  to  its 


HOLMER    IN    TRIBUNAL  99 

foundation  again.  Wickford,  who  had  had  himself 
in  the  early  twenties  an  affair,  completely  unknown 
to  his  mother,  with  a  beautiful  young  actress  in  Lon- 
don, was  the  only  person  fit,  to  Iveagh's  ideas,  to 
share  some  of  these  storms.  Wick  knew,  at  least, — 
Iveagh  had  seen  him,  how  he  was  with  Maidie. 
Maidie,  naturally,  was  nothing  to  Lise, — still,  Wick 
might  know  a  thing  or  two  without  degrading  Lise's 
image  in  transference. 

Wickford,  untiring  in  patience  and  kindliness, 
had  carried  him  through  the  worst.  It  had  been 
hopeless,  the  boy's  passion,  almost  from  its  outset. 
Lise,  little  puss,  never  seriously  looked  his  way,  and 
only  looked  Wickford's  when  she  wished  to  annoy 
Adelaide.  She  played  with  Iveagh's  sulky  devo- 
tion, Celtic  smoke  and  fire,  tentatively  until  he 
wearied  her;  then  she  discovered  her  own  affections 
in  the  nick  of  time,  and  pinned  them  to  Mark :  Mark 
the  absolute,  the  sedate  and  serious, — and  saintly, 
according  to  the  Duchess,  only  not  in  fact.  Iveagh 
had  not  even  the  consolation  of  despising  Mark. 
He  liked  him  originally,  and  with  the  faith  of  a 
well-tempered  spirit  continued  to  do  so.  Mark's 
excellence  only  pointed  more  clearly  the  moral,  the 
emptiness  of  all  things,  and  the  worthlessness  of  any 


100  HATCHWAYS 

course  Iveagh  might  yet  be  expected,  wanting  Lise, 
to  run.  He  might  not  even,  as  it  shortly  appeared, 
snap  the  rotten  thread  of  his  existence.  Wick,  at 
the  critical  instant,  got  in  his  way. 


VII 
HATCHWAYS  AT  TEA 

IT  was  all  this,  or  nearly  all  of  it,  that  Ernestine 
communicated  to  Gabriel,  so  soon  as  she  saw  he  was 
attracted,  hanging,  as  it  were,  on  the  outskirts  of 
the  party  she  had  instituted  for  Iveagh's  spiritual 
recuperation  and  moral  support.  She  did  not  let 
him  see  he  was  being  so  drawn  in  to  the  core  of  the 
real  romance  of  the  district:  she  made  no  untoward 
effort  to  secure  his  interest,  still  less  to  invite  co- 
operation, which  from  a  man  and  a  foreigner  she 
could  hardly  expect.  She  merely  told  him  things, 
by  degrees,  that  he  really  wanted  to  know. 

Even  so  she  did  no  wrong  to  Wickford's  hard- 
wrung  confidence;  she  told  him  nothing  about  the 
shooting  affray,  and  nothing  about  the  increasing 
strain  in  her  friend's  family,  which  was  Gertrude's 
business,  not  hers.  And  she  only  told  him  of  the 
latest,  or  tropical  terror  of  the  Duke's,  because  Ade- 
laide, to  her  sorrow,  had  already  given  that  delicate 
secret  away. 

She  waited  for  him  to  come  to  her,  under  her  roof, 
101 


102  HATCHWAYS 

before  she  enlightened  him :  and  Gabriel  also  waited 
for  that  unconsciously,  confident  that  it  would 
happen  in  time.  Both  he  and  she,  being  busy  peo- 
ple, had  plenty  of  other  irons  in  the  fire.  It  was 
already  March  when  Hatchways  doors,  or  arms, 
really  opened  to  him,  though  his  heart  had  been 
planted  beneath  the  larch-trees  long  previously. 
He  did  his  duty  by  his  "chief"  in  the  interval,  and 
his  devoirs  by  the  Duchess  (who  received  him  in 
London,  finally),  and  had  his  fill  of  exploring  and 
poking  about.  He  was  weighing  several  competing 
attractions  for  the  Easter  weeks  when  her  note  came, 
bidding  him  to  Hatchways  if  he  still  cared  for  it; 
and  Gabriel  dropped  all  the  other  things,  just  as 
Sir  George  had  once  advised  him,  and  went  down 
to  Hatchv/ays  as  soon  as  might  be,  by  the  usual 
train. 

"He's  the  kind  of  nature  takes  to  it  easily,"  said 
Ernestine  of  Iveagh,  the  second  conversation  they 
had.  "I  think  Wickford  is  right  there, — drink  or 
drugs." 

"Restive?"  queried  du  Frettay.     "Rebellious?" 

"Both.  And  he  is  very,  very  nearly  at  the  end 
of  his  tether.  Was,"  she  corrected.  "He  is  better 
now." 

"Angel,"  thought  du  Frettay,  as  she  looked  abroad 


HATCHWAYS    AT    TEA  103 

at  the  garden,  leaning  forward  with  her  elbows  on 
her  knees,  a  most  unstudied  attitude  which  might 
have  been  a  man's.  "Women  are  the  devil,"  he 
said,  still  to  himself,  but  audibly.  "The  number 
of  souls  they  have  lost, — oh,  tossed  away." 

"Saved  too,"  said  Ernestine. 

"Not  so  many,"  he  declared.     "Not  nearly." 

"Mothers — "  said  Ernestine.  He  made  a  ges- 
ture, granting  mothers.  "And  mistresses,"  she  pro- 
ceeded, with  the  simplest  deliberation.  "Yes, 
often, — often." 

"Rarely, — rarely,"  he  mocked.  "I  tell  you,  I 
know.  It  is  not  the  common  desire,  to  save.  The 
common  desire  is  to  lead — quoi  done? — to  decoy  by 
any  means,  to  the  devil  sooner  than  nowhere.  Feu 
follef, — what  is  your  word? — and  my  faith,  as 
empty, — vacuous.  Drink  at  least  fills  the  void." 

She  was  silent,  leaving  it  to  him:  she  could  not 
pretend  to  his  experience. 

"Adelaide  should  not  have  told  you,"  she 
thought,  looking  at  his  faintly  mocking  face,  the 
cool  glitter  of  his  eyes:  experience,  not  even  such  as 
Iveagh's,  lay  behind  that.  "You  were  inclined  to 
like  him  simply,  those  first  days.  Now  you  have 
been  thinking  in  French  about  it.  It  was  not  right 
of  Adelaide.  And  for  her  .  ." 


104  HATCHWAYS 

"Do  you  know  women  who  take  drugs, 
Madame4?"  said  Gabriel,  right  into  her  thought, — 
her  start  very  nearly  betrayed  her.  Her  little  flush 
might  have  done  so  as  she  answered — 

"Yes,  one  or  two." 

'Tor  what  reasons?" 

"Oh,  disappointment, — weariness." 

"Sometimes  the  hope  to  prolong  their  youth  and 
brilliance, — chance  of  success*?" 

"Have  you  guessed  that  too*?"  thought  Ernestine. 
But  he  was  far  from  thinking  of  Adelaide. 
"Women,"  she  said  in  her  non-committal  manner, 
rising,  "may  be  restive  and  rebellious,  as  well  as 
men." 

"To  be  sure.  And  never  so  much,  it  appears," 
said  Gabriel,  who  had  been  looking  about  London, 
"as  when  they  have  full  freedom." 

Mrs.  Redgate,  who  had  risen  to  rearrange  some 
flowers  in  a  jar,  stood  still  a  moment.  The  remark 
struck  her  as  clever.  Nobody  she  had  ever  met 
struck  her  as  so  simply  clever  as  this  young  man. 
He  said  things  like  that  quite  easily.  Rick,  who 
wrote  critical  articles  for  the  Times,  was  less  given 
to  it.  She  debated  it,  comparing  them  equably, — so 
she  forgot  to  reply. 

"What  a  phrase-making  fool  I  am,"  thought  Ga- 


HATCHWAYS   AT    TEA  105 

briel.  We  trespass  on  his  thoughts  like  this,  partly 
to  fill  up  interludes,  for  he  and  Ernestine  did  not 
converse  in  any  classical  style.  She  did  not  talk, 
as  Marchant  contended,  she  said  things,  and  let 
say — "elle  disait  et  laissait  dire."  Gabriel  knew  he 
could  say  exactly  what  he  liked,  think  aloud,  which 
was  a  great  comfort  after  the  Duchess. 

"What  was  she  like,  the  girl1?"  he  said,  recollect- 
ing another  question  he  wished  to  ask  before  the 
herd  came;  for  it  was  approaching  the  mystic  or 
club-hour  of  four  o'clock. 

"Lise?  Oh,  I  don't  think  she  flirted  really, — I 
mean,  not  badly,"  said  Ernestine.  "She  played  a 
little,  tried  experiments, — she  was  only  nineteen. 
Perhaps — mischievous."  She  dropped  the  word, 
dubious. 

"That  is  not  mischief-making?" 

"No."  She  laughed.  "I  think  not.  You  would 
have  to  see  her,  it  is  hopeless  to  describe.  Lise  was 
like  water, — wonderful." 

"Changeante?" 

"Yes.  It  is  odd,"  said  Ernestine,  growing  grave, 
"what  appearance  will  do." 

"It  is  miraculous  what  appearance  will  do,"  said 
M.  du  Frettay.  Meeting  his  eyes  she  laughed 
again.  "I  can't  help  it  somehow,"  she  said,  "think- 


106  HATCHWAYS 

ing  of  Lise.  She  was  quite  a  dear,  though.  She 
writes  to  me." 

"Is  she  happy*?"  said  Gabriel:  and  appended — 
"Pardon."  It  struck  him  he  asked  too  many  ques- 
tions, like  Iveagh. 

"She  married  a  good  man,"  said  Ernestine,  carry- 
ing the  jar  of  flowers  to  its  place. 

"Ah, — bon  I     You  answer  me." 

Mrs.  Redgate  refused  to  smile  any  more :  she  had 
smiled  enough.  It  is  something,  in  life,  to  marry  a 
good  man,  whatever  he  might  choose  to  think. 
Take  any  case  of  the  contrary.  .  .  .  And  dear  Lise 
— she  wrote  nicely  of  Mark.  And  Mark  was  all  he 
should  be — not  Iveagh.  So  thought  Ernestine,  dif- 
ferently from  the  Duchess,  oppositely.  The  Duch- 
ess's way  of  thinking  was,  Iveagh  was  not  Mark. 

She  excused  herself  to  Gabriel,  and  left  the  room. 
She  had  often  left  him  alone  before  on  his  visits, 
and  he  had  no  objection, — felt  no  blank,  which  was 
singular.  He  knew  she  was  still  there,  of  course, 
about  the  place. 

"Every woman,"  thought  Gabriel,  remembering; 
and  compared  her  with  others  that  he  had  in  mind. 
Soon  he  was  thinking  more  about  the  others  than 
about  Ernestine.  Not  that  she  did  not  compare 
with  all  of  them  favourably,  and  not  that  he  was 


HATCHWAYS    AT    TEA  107 

not,  during  the  whole  period  of  his  contemplation, 
wanting  her  back.  Only — well,  she  was  the  least 
"troublante"  personage  du  Frettay  had  ever  come 
across.  She  never  troubled  him,  he  only  felt  an  oc- 
casional need  of  her, — perhaps  a  growing  need.  .  .  . 

Presently  "the  husband"  came  in. 

"Where  is  my  wife^"  said  Rick,  looking  over  the 
spectacles,  which  he  had  lately  taken  to  wearing, 
learnedly. 

"I  have  no  idea,"  said  du  Frettay,  waking. 

"Where,"  pursued  Rick,  looking  about  him,  "is 
the  tea4?" 

"I  have,"  said  du  Frettay,  with  increased  earnest- 
ness, "no  idea." 

Withdrawal  on  the  part  of  Rick.  Young  or 
youngish  men  kicking  their  heels  about  his  premises 
seemed  nothing  to  him.  His  wife,  and  the  tea,  were 
all  he  came  about:  and  he  withdrew,  contented, 
without  either.  .  .  .  Singular  household.  Won- 
derful Hatchways.  Marvellous  England.  .  .  .  Du 
Frettay  dreamed. 

Presently,  everybody  came  at  once,  by  windows 
and  doors,  like  an  untidy  stage  entrance, — Ade- 
laide's voice  and  presence  prominent, — surely  un- 
necessarily so!  Sam  Coverack  and  others  followed 
her.  The  tea  entered  also,  left  centre.  M.  du 


108  HATCHWAYS 

Frettay,  with  his  elegantly  crossed  legs,  right  centre, 
was  no  longer  alone.  Being  M.  du  Frettay,  how- 
ever, he  did  not  stir.  Everybody  else  was  stirring, 
so  it  was  better  not  to  do  so. 

"Well,  I'm  blest!"  said  Adelaide,  stopping  short. 
She  pointed  the  finger  of  scorn  at  him.  The  com- 
pany gathered  to  look  at  M.  du  Frettay,  taking  pos- 
session in  this  manner  of  Hatchways,  their  clubroom, 
in  his  new  character  as  resident  guest.  He  bore  the 
infliction  confidently, — one  would  have  said  he  en- 
joyed it. 

Iveagh  alone  seemed  indifferent  to  his  reappear- 
ance. He  gave  his  hand,  but  hardly  turned  his 
eyes.  He  was  sulky.  Adelaide,  who  had  attached 
Sam  for  the  afternoon,  had  probably  been  teasing 
him.  Now,  having  M.  du  Frettay,  she  dropped 
Sam  also,  for  Sam's  good.  It  was  like  that  game 
of  cards  where  you  aways  exchange  the  less  good  for 
the  better,  as  your  turn  comes  round, — commerce,  is 
it  not  called1? 

In  the  intervals  of  replying  in  kind  to  Adelaide, 
Gabriel  tried  to  follow  the  dialogue  of  the  two 
young  men  beyond  her,  Iveagh  and  Sam.  Nothing 
could  be  less  interesting.  It  was  horses — horses 
eternally,  and  only  remarks  exchanged  at  that. 
That  Iveagh,  among  other  offices,  was  his  brother's 


HATCHWAYS    AT   TEA  109 

self-constituted  groom-in-chief,  Gabriel  had  already 
noted,  without  surprise.  He  had  stopped  being  sur- 
prised about  the  Suir  boys. 

He  came  back  after  an  interval  of  Adelaide,  and 
listened  anew.  Horse-fairs,  in  some  part  of  the 
world.  Bargains,  on  Sam's  part,  bargains,  on 
Iveagh's.  Or  rather,  on  Wickford's,  for  he  gen- 
erally seemed,  in  these  recitals,  to  be  spending  his 
brother's  money.  A  shockingly  dull  pair  of  young 
men.  Vulgar,  almost,  some  of  their  observations, 
considering  where  they  were  exchanged.  Did  they 
take  Mrs.  Redgate's  drawing-room  for  a  stable? 

Presently,  parrying  Adelaide  with  some  energy,  in 
order  to  have  a  breathing-space,  he  listened  again. 
Circuses! 

"There's  a  circus  comin'  to  Readin',"  said  Sam,  a 
trifle  more  for  the  benefit  of  the  world,  than 
Iveagh's.  Perhaps  he  faintly  saw  a  need  for  conde- 
scending to  his  immediate  society. 

"Is  that  a  thing  to  see1?"  asked  Gabriel,  with 
satiric  intent. 

"Oh  well,  you  see  decent  ridin', — specially  the 
girls." 

"Ah."  Gabriel  tried  not  to  begin  to  be  inter- 
ested. Mrs.  Redgate's  immediate  environment  at  a 
circus,  he  told  himself,  was  unthinkable.  It  was 


110  HATCHWAYS 

grotesque.  But  the  worst  of  Suir  society  was  that 
it  never  minded  such  clashes,  the  least.  It  con- 
stantly did  the  next  thing,  which  was  generally  in- 
appropriate. Gabriel  began  to  get  the  feeling  of 
Suir  again,  and  his  politer  London  moods  dropped 
off  him. 

"Like  our  Concours  Hippique,  is  it*?"  he  said,  still 
very  cynical,  across  intervening  parties,  to  Rick. 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Rick,  looking  like  a  benevolent 
ogre.  "I  doubt  if  society  will  disturb  itself,  on  the 
occasion."  He  added,  still  more  benevolently, — 
"I  shouldn't  go." 

"Nobody's  going,"  said  Adelaide,  contemptu- 
ously. "It's  only  Iveagh  rotting,  as  usual." 

"You  get  out,  it  was  me  proposed  it,"  said  Sam 
politely.  "And  what's  more,  we  never  asked  you, 
did  we,  Iveagh?  Our  party's  made  up." 

This  was  funny, — also  stimulating,  as  it  appeared. 

"It  might  be  rather  a  game,"  said  Miss  Courtier, 
debating  the  attraction.  "When  is  it, — first  week 
in  April?  I  say,  look  here.  Suppose  Wick  mo- 
tored us  all  over  for  the  evening." 

"He  won't,"  said  Sam,  having  consulted  Iveagh's 
expression.     "Wick  won't  be  let  in  again  so  soon,— 
I  mean,  we  did  it  too  thoroughly  last  time." 

There  was  a  ripple  of  appreciation.     Gabriel  at 


HATCHWAYS    AT    TEA  111 

once  determined  not  to  ask  Iveagh,  in  private,  how 
his  brother  had  last  been  "let  in"  by  the  club  in- 
mates. It  could  not,  he  was  certain,  be  worth  hear- 
ing. It  had  happened,  of  course,  while  he  was  in 
London,  doing  far  better  things. 

"Well,  someone  else  can  take  us,"  said  Adelaide. 
"M.  du  Frettay,  now, — I'm  sure  he  can  drive.  And 
he  wants  to  see  life,  don't  you*?"  She  did  not  prod 
him,  precisely,  but  she  moved  her  elegantly  shod 
foot  as  if  she  were  about  to  do  so.  This,  like  her 
little  coachman's  click,  was  comprised  in  Adelaide's 
drawing-room  deportment. 

"There  are  performin'  tigers,"  said  Sam,  gravely. 

M.  du  Frettay  laughed,  throwing  back  his  head. 
He  had  a  pleasant  fashion  of  laughter,  for  so  cynical 
a  young  man.  From  the  first,  his  present  company 
had  approved  of  it. 

"I  shall  be  back  in  London  by  then,"  he  explained. 

"Oh,  rats!"  said  Sam,  helpfully. 

"Come  down  for  it,"  helped  Adelaide. 

"Bring  Trenchard  along  to  look  after  us,"  helped 
Iveagh. 

"Tigers!"  cried  Adelaide.  Shrieks  of  laughter. 
Gabriel  laughed  too,  having  quite  laid  aside  his 
cynical  armoury.  It  seemed  useless  to  preserve  it. 

"I  don't  think  even  tigers  at  Reading  will  stir  Sir 


HATCHWAYS 

George,"  he  said  to  Mrs.  Redgate,  who,  as  usual, 
had  done  little  but  contribute  an  occasional  smile 
to  the  subject,  and  cake,  and  cups  of  tea. 

"The  idea!"  said  Ernestine. 

That  was  a  fair  specimen,  all  told,  of  conversa- 
tion at  Hatchways  on  club-days,  and  the  proportions 
about  right.  Rick  one  remark,  Iveagh  one  remark, 
or  two  at  most:  the  incorrigible  talkers,  such  as  Ga- 
briel, Adelaide,  Sam,  and  (we  may  add)  the  Duch- 
ess, doing  the  rest.  Wickford,  if  he  were  there,  and 
not  in  London  or  toiling  at  his  book,  contributing 
sense  occasionally.  Marchant,  if  he  were  there,  and 
not  at  Oxford,  conversing  in  good  language,  once 
he  was  driven  from  his  academic  pickets.  Miss  All- 
good,  the  infant  schoolmistress,  if  she  were  there, 
making  beautiful,  complete  remarks,  each  perfect  of 
its  kind,  and  pitying  all  the  lazy  young  people. 
Iveagh's  dogs,  if  they  were  there,  wagging  their  bod- 
ies, messing  the  place  with  crumbs,  and  disturbing 
all  effort  at  connected  and  profitable  dialogue,  un- 
less the  Duchess  were  there  as  well,  when  she  turned 
them  out. 

And  Ernestine1?  She  existed  among  them,  and 
passed  their  provisions,  and  removed  the  white  dogs' 
hairs  from  the  velvet  cushions,  and  just  said — "The 
idea!"  when  they  dragged  down  a  hero's  name. 


HATCHWAYS    AT    TEA  113 

She  sat  and  looked  on,  her  nice  capable  hands  locked 
in  her  lap  whenever  they  had  an  interval,  not  wear- 
ing a  quiet  uniform  with  several  medals  on  the 
breast  of  it,  but  deserving  it,  surely.  Life-saving 
medals'? — possibly:  since  hers  was  the  greater  war- 
fare. Very  possibly  indeed,  with  eyes  like  that. 
Such  eyes  had  "seen  life,"  to  use  Adelaide's  ridicu- 
lous expression,  though  not  in  the  form  of  sawdust 
and  circus  animals.  She  was  seeing  into  life,  quite 
probably,  now:  aware  of  the  grave  background  that 
lay  behind  her  giddy  company:  truth  behind  all  the 
young  heads,  and  tragedy  attending  some. 

Once,  having  held  for  some  time  a  hand  to  Ade- 
laide for  her  cup,  and  having  acquired  it  at  last,  with 
M.  du  Frettay's  assistance,  she  made  a  remark,  quite 
"on  her  own." 

"Rick  says  I've  got  to  give  up  my  blue  dragons," 
she  said,  referring,  as  it  seemed,  to  the  cup  she  held. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Redgate!"  exclaimed  a  chorus. 

"What  for?"  said  Iveagh. 

They  had  all  always  had  those  teacups  with  the 
blue  dragons  when  they  came  to  call  at  Hatchways; 
and  since  they  all  called  constantly,  they  were  as  in- 
dignant as  children  at  the  idea  of  anything  being 
changed  in  the  ceremony  they  expected.  Plate  for 
plate,  cake  for  cake,  it  must  be  the  same.  It  was  in 


114  HATCHWAYS 

the  expectation  of  such  protest  that  she  had  warned 
them,  doubtless. 

"They're  so  ugly "  began  Rick. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Redgate !"  cried  chorus. 

"They  were  the  worst  of  our  wedding-presents," 
explained  Rick  to  du  Frettay,  across  the  intervening 
items,  "and  consequently,  no  one  ever  breaks  them. 
Nothing  sticks  by  one  like  a  bad  wedding-present, 
unless  a  bad  conscience.  Strong  measures,  I  tell 
her,  is  the  only  thing.  She's  got  quite  a  decent  pink 
set,  and  another  white  one,  put  away." 

"But  they're  jolly  nice"  said  Sam,  looking  at  his 
dragons.  "Ain't  they,  what's-your-name*?"  (This 
was  one  of  Gabriel's  titles,  in  the  district.)  "Mrs. 
Redgate,  look  here:  you  go  on  strike." 

There  was  a  laugh  at  this. 

"Perhaps  he'll  forget  about  it,  Ernestine,"  said 
Adelaide  in  a  stage  whisper.  "They  do,  if  you  let 
'em  alone." 

Ernestine  shook  her  head.  "Tea-time,"  she  ex- 
plained,— and  it  was  enough.  All-sufficing  tea- 
time,  hour  of  mystery,  when  her  husband  and  the 
blue  dragons  must  meet ! 

"Keep  'em  for  us,"  said  Iveagh  of  the  dragons. 

"Yes,  keep  'em  for  us,"  agreed  others :  and  added 
in  mischief  to  it, — "Send  him  a  pink  one  in  there." 


HATCHWAYS    AT    TEA  115 

So  the  little  point  was  dealt  with,  and  dropped 
again.  She  belonged  to  them,  on  the  whole,  more 
than  to  her  husband.  Shared  among  the  district, — 
public  property.  .  .  .  And  the  man  accepted  it! 


VIII 
BESS 

"A  BLESSING,"  said  Ernestine,  consulting  her  tab- 
lets. "Next  week  it  will  be  Bess." 

Ernestine  was  very  free  of  drags  on  her  in  the 
way  of  relations,  which  drags  would  have  detracted 
from  her  popular  worth.  But  she  had  a  niece,  Bess 
Ryeborn,  who  has  already  risen  once  on  these  pages, 
and  who  appeared,  in  just  that  way,  at  Hatchways 
occasionally.  Bess  was  rather  a  grave  girl,  but  it 
was  not  a  daunting  kind  of  gravity :  it  chiefly  meant 
she  had  long  periods  of  study  when  she  got  out  of 
the  habit  of  society;  and  when  she  came  to  visit  her 
uncle  Rick,  she  had  to  pick  it  up  again.  She  en- 
joyed small  jokes,  fun  and  fripperies,  as  those  do 
who  seldom  get  the  chance;  and  of  course  Uncle 
Rick  saw  to  it  that  she  had  all  the  chances  possible. 

Bess  was  an  Art-student,  a  student  especially  of 
animals,  and  she  owned  a  consuming  passion  for 
cats.  Cats,  great  and  small,  were  her  pensioners. 
Since  she  understood  the  ineffable  feline,  her  studies 

116 


BESS  117 

of  cat-life  and  character  were  very  clever  indeed: 
and  Ernestine,  who  had  first  set  her  on  the  track  of 
this  pursuit,  saw  a  good  chance  now  of  its  becoming 
a  profession.  A  professional  Bess  was  Ernestine's 
desire,  for  the  simple  reason  that  the  girl  had  not 
much  to  live  on.  Mrs.  Redgate's  widower  brother 
was  a  poor  schoolmaster,  and  could  do  little  or  noth- 
ing towards  Bess's  future.  Even  the  art-training 
had  been  largely  owing  to  Rick's  generosity,  supple- 
menting the  meagre  allowance  Bess  had  from  home. 

Both  the  Suir  boys  had  met  Miss  Ryeborn,  and 
liked  her  in  the  easy  modern  give-and-take  fashion 
of  young  men.  This  was  all  very  well :  but — it  was 
a  great  but  to  the  Duchess — it  happened  that  Bess 
was  very  pretty,  with  the  same  pleasant  shape  and 
size  and  square  shoulders  of  her  aunt  Ernestine, 
dark-haired  and  with  dark-blue  eyes. 

Now  this,  from  the  Duchess's  point  of  view,  was 
wrong  of  Ernestine.  It  was  all  very  well  to  have  a 
niece  who  was  a  needy  art-student:  but  you  ought 
not  to  have  a  needy  niece  eternally  staying  with  you 
who  looked  like  that.  The  Duchess,  as  was  inevi- 
table, at  once  accounted  Miss  Ryeborn  a  danger  for 
the  Duke.  That  is,  not  as  a  danger,  since  Wick- 
ford  was  going  ultimately  to  marry  dear  Adelaide 
Courtier :  but  as  a  distraction  introduced,  on  the  part 


118  HATCHWAYS 

of  Ernestine,  at  an  interesting  moment  of  Wick- 
ford's  mating,  which  fell  short  of  her  usual  high 
level  of  tact. 

However,  Ernestine  did  not  stop  having  Bess  to 
stay  with  her,  because  of  Gertrude's  obvious  reflec- 
tions upon  the  proceeding.  Since  Bess  was  a  bless- 
ing, she  had  her  rather  frequently:  and  with  Bess 
came  cats  and  kittens,  either  in  covered  baskets 
among  her  hand-luggage,  or  collected  for  her  delec- 
tation by  the  Suir  boys,  from  various  corners  of  the 
Wickford  estate.  The  cats  and  kittens  were  not 
always  so  much  of  a  blessing  as  Bess:  but  for  the 
purposes  of  her  study  and  eventual  profit  they  were 
tolerated  gladly.  Sometimes  the  Suir  boys,  who 
took  on  animals,  in  daily  life,  as  readily  as  persons, 
helped  Bess  by  posing  them. 

Wickford  and  Iveagh's  terms  with  this  pretty  girl 
afforded  the  ever-curious  invader  a  new  opportunity 
for  study, — his  ideas  concerning  them  being  by  this 
time  in  a  state  of  fusion,  as  we  have  said.  The  Suir 
boys  were  nothing  if  not  unexpected,  and  Gabriel 
had  wisely  dropped  all  attempt  to  summarise  them, 
by  any  classical  standard.  They  had  no  manners, 
for  instance,  properly  so  called:  yet  whatever  the 
unusual  situations,  of  cats  or  persons,  they  discov- 
ered on  Mrs.  Redgate's  premises  when,  together  or 


BESS  119 

separately,  they  chose  to  call,  they  always  worked 
in.  They  made  part  of  any  such  given  situation 
immediately.  They  plunged,  committed  them- 
selves, sacrificed  their  identity, — their  dignity  being 
Wickford, — they  did  not,  with  the  beautiful  British 
blandness,  hang  outside. 

It  was  this  peculiarity  which  made  them  con- 
stantly, and  in  spite  of  everything,  essentials  to  their 
lady  mother  in  her  social  schemes  at  Holmer:  and 
that  though  she  chose  to  carp  and  call  their  uses  in 
question  all  the  time.  At  a  real  domestic  crisis,  the 
Duchess  needed  her  stupid  boys,  and  betrayed  the 
need:  such  crises — owing  to  Oxborough  methods  of 
hospitality — being  not  unknown  in  her  vicinity. 
Gabriel  had  seen  both  brothers,  and  the  younger 
especially,  cut  on  sight,  as  it  were,  by  the  most  casual 
and  homely  means,  the  knot  of  the  worst  dilemmas 
into  which  their  mother's  ill-mixed  and  ill-managed 
house-parties  had  got  themselves  tied.  They  both 
owned,  had  she  ever  been  willing  to  admit  it,  the 
trick  which  in  the  world's  business  is  really  the  best 
trick  of  all, — that  of  living:  or  to  put  it  more  accu- 
rately, living  among  their  kind.  They  had  it  by 
right  of  birth,  Wick  partially,  and  Iveagh  in  per- 
fection; and  in  spite  of  their  slang  and  savagery, 
and  talk  of  equine  diseases  in  drawing-rooms,  Ga- 


120  HATCHWAYS 

briel  began  to  grant  it  a  point,  a  real  scoring-point, 
— in  the  younger  above  all. 

That  he  was  suffering  from  what  is  called  the 
Irish  charm,  in  thus  thinking  so  constantly  about 
Iveagh,  Gabriel  had  no  idea.  For  the  best  of  rea- 
sons,— Iveagh  was  not  charming.  It  was  impossi- 
ble to  connect  the  word  with  him,  at  least  to  Latin 
minds.  He  did  not  even  try  to  be.  He  was  plain, 
ugly  if  you  chose  to  think  so.  He  was  slight  and 
unimportant.  He  looked  alongside  people,  said 
what  occurred  to  him,  smiled  seldom,  laughed  never, 
and  went  about  his  own  concerns. 

How  much  of  this  so-called  attraction  is  mystery 
simply,  the  animal-like  evasive  quality  of  a  very  old 
race,  hunting, — and  hunted  of  course, — forced  to 
disguise  itself,  if  not  to  obliterate,  is  a  question  for 
the  wise.  Gabriel  had  heard,  or  read,  of  the  Irish 
charm,  of  course,  as  he  had  read  of  the  Scotch  crab- 
bedness :  but  he  had  not  expected  that.  You  never 
do  expect  them,  it  is  their  secret.  Besides, — in 
order  finally  to  bother  the  well-read  foreigner, — the 
Suirs  were  the  "other  Irish,"  not  quite  the  sort  Ga- 
briel had  learnt  by  heart  in  literature  on  the  Irish 
theme.  This  is  a  trick  of  the  racial  type  that  needs 
but  mention  to  be  admitted.  Are  we  not  most  of 
us  the  "other  English,"  when  foreigners  really  come 


BESS 

to  look  into  us?  Have  we  not  all  of  us  met  (thank 
Heaven)  the  "other  Scotch"? 

It  was  this  vague  resemblance  in  Iveagh  to  an  ani- 
mal, Mrs.  Redgate  suspected,  that  attracted  Bess. 
Bess's  eyes  upon  him,  at  times,  had  the  lingering, 
loving  look  they  had  when  attached  to  a  cat.  She 
certainly  liked  him, — her  face  changed  a  little  when 
he  came  in.  When  Wickford  came  in  without  him, 
Bess's  eyes  expressed  it  at  once.  The  world,  though 
always  pleasant  to  Bess,  pleasant  and  serious,  was 
unaffected  by  Wickford.  A  Duke  or  two  about  the 
place  made  no  difference.  Iveagh  swayed  things  a 
very  little  .  .  .  still,  they  swayed.  And  Bess  was 
accustomed  in  life  to  have  them  steady. 

So  Bess's  aunt,  in  the  quiet  depths  of  her,  grew 
anxious.  Was  handling,  or  no  handling,  necessary 
to  a  situation  like  this?  The  future  was  not  plain. 
The  Duchess,  thinking  about  the  Duke,  was  an  ob- 
stacle to  quiet  communing.  Iveagh,  walking  alone 
and  thinking  about  Lise,  was  another.  Iveagh's 
habit  of  sharing  with  all  men,  outwardly,  his  com- 
radeship with  Bess  over  the  cat-baskets,  was  not  a 
thing  that  could  be  checked.  Wickford's  habit  of 
looking  at  pretty  blue-eyed  girls  of  no  account  was 
(unluckily  for  poor  Gertrude)  not  a  thing  that  could 
be  checked  either.  The  Suir  boys  were  both  there, 


HATCHWAYS 

mixed  in  with  Hatchways  and  its  fate  for  better  or 
worse.  It  was  of  course  Ernestine's  own  fault  to 
have  mixed  them. 

So  things  stood  when  Bess,  blessing  as  she  was, 
jumped  out  at  Holmer  station  on  to  the  ash-strewn 
platform,  a  basket  on  her  arm.  She  was  a  blessing 
in  spite  of  all.  Rick's  face,  beaming  ogre-like  when 
he  took  her  in  his  arms  at  the  station-gate,  proved 
that.  Ernestine's  face  under  the  larches  proved  it 
too,  not  quite  so  expansively. 

"Take  care  of  it,"  pleaded  Bess,  as  her  uncle  re- 
lieved her  of  the  basket,  "it"  being  something 
within,  nobody  could  of  course  imagine  what. 
Cracking  sounds,  as  though  "it"  were  sharpening 
small  claws,  came  from  the  basket's  depths  at  inter- 
vals: and  at  intervals  also,  small  protesting  cries. 
Not  wild  lamenting  cries  of  a  caged  and  outraged 
kitten,  but  little  cries  of  ennui,  directed  to  a  feeling 
friend.  Interludes  interspersed  them  of  audible 
and  equally  unreasoning  purr, — sounds  which 
would  have  demonstrated,  to  such  as  Bess,  that  kit- 
ten's age  to  a  nicety.  It  had  recently  learnt  to  purr : 
thus,  even  in  annoying  confinement,  and  the  surging 
of  station  circumstances,  it  was  worth  while  prac- 
tising the  accomplishment,  for  "its"  private  consola- 
tion and  support. 


BESS  123 

"How's  everybody,"  said  Bess,  as  she  walked  be- 
neath the  larch-trees,  her  arm  in  Mrs.  Redgate's. 
"Oh,  there's  a  new  bed, — what's  to  be  in  it, — 
tulips'?  Oh,  why  not  tulips,  Uncle  Rick1?" 

"Because,"  said  Ernestine  sedately,  "hyacinths 
are  coming  up." 

"Coming,  are  they?"  Bess  dropped  on  her  knees 
on  the  grass.  "Is  it  the  spring1?  I  might  have 
known  it  would  be  at  Hatchways.  It's  hopelessly 
winter  in  town.  .  .  .  Please,  that  basket.  May  it 
come  out,  Ernestine"?  It's  asking.  Pickle,  come 
along." 

"It"  walked  out  on  the  grass,  yawning:  as  though 
— bless  you! — it  had  not  been  so  eager  to  come  as 
all  that.  Thus  do  its  kind  disconcert  expectation, 
only,  unlike  Iveagh,  deliberately.  They  baffle  and 
disappoint  of  fixed  intent.  That  kitten  was  de- 
lighted, really,  to  be  in  the  country,  fingering  the 
sweet  springing  grass.  It  thought  about  squirrels 
instantly, — squirrels  and  mice.  Out-of-door  mice, 
more  delicate  than  the  urban  variety.  Possible 
brown  bees  in  conjectural  crocuses.  But  it  yawned, 
looked  absent  and  offended  slightly, — and  the  in- 
stant after  sat  down  and  passionately  licked  a  pro- 
truded leg. 

Bess  called  her  aunt   "Ernestine"    like   all   the 


HATCHWAYS 

i 

world,  for  her  aunt  was  only  a  baker's  dozen  of  years 
older  than  she  was,  which,  Bess  considered,  did  not 
count.  Moreover,  "aunt"  as  well  as  "Ernestine" 
was  supererogatory.  "Aunt  Nesta,"  a  just  possible 
combination,  appealed  in  public,  before  the  Duchess 
for  example.  Bess  was  equally  frightened  of  the 
Duchess,  and  bored  by  her.  It  is  possible  her 
Grace,  when  she  met  Bess  at  Hatchways,  and  about 
the  village,  had  made  her  opinion  of  her  presence 
there  too  clear.  It  was  so  impossible  for  the 
Duchess  to  disguise  her  true  thoughts, — it  was  al- 
most wrong.  She  rarely  did  so,  and  never  with 
young  girls. 

"How's  everybody1?"  said  Bess  again:  meaning, 
of  course,  "How's  Iveagh?"  She  did  not  know  she 
meant  it,  probably;  but  Ernestine  suspected,  as 
never  before,  what  that  slight  colour  in  her  serious 
young  face  implied.  That  little  pink  spot  of  ex- 
citement was  not  only  the  joy  of  getting  to  the 
country  from  London :  no,  nor  the  rapture  of  being, 
as  she  always  was  at  her  Uncle  Rick's,  an  honoured 
and  important  guest.  It  was  other  things, — one 
other  thing, — the  other  thing,  to  a  healthy  girl. 
And  she  was  too  naturally  clear  and  simple  to  con- 
ceal it  completely. 

Later  on,  of  course,  she  saw  him;  but  she  talked 


BESS  125 

to  Wickford,  who  made  himself  unusually  agreeable 
in  respect  of  Bess.  Quite  uncommonly.  Really, 
had  Wickford's  lady  mother  been  there,  which  she 
was  happily  not,  she  would  have  been  terrified. 
The  Duchess  would  have  been  the  more  terrified  that 
Bess  with  her  little  colour  was  unusually  pretty  that 
night,  deliciously  dressed  with  her  inevitable  simple 
taste,  and  just  perceptibly  shy  in  her  son's  company. 
Her  maternal  terror  would  have  been  completed, 
concentrated,  consummated,  by  Adelaide's  sudden 
and  violent  dislike  for  Bess. 

"Good  heavens,"  thought  Mrs.  Redgate,  in  the 
wise  and  secret  depths  of  her.  "What  is  coming 
upon  me*?" 

She  really  did  not  know.  She  could  not  imagine, 
granted  Wickford.  He  was  always  a  little  hard  to 
understand,  and  incapable  when  it  came  to  explain- 
ing himself,  especially  in  a  delicate  matter.  Faced 
with  a  delicate  matter,  Wickford  tumbled  over  his 
own  feelings,  as  an  incapable  rider  at  a  fence  might 
tumble  over  his  horse's  head.  Still,  his  nature  was 
sensible,  and  he  generally  knew,  when  it  came  to 
action,  where  he  was  going.  His  proceedings,  if 
nothing  else,  made  it  clear. 

Well,  this  evening, — the  boys  and  Adelaide  came 
in  after  dinner, — he  made  straight  for  Bess.  Al- 


126  HATCHWAYS 

ways  sociable,  Wickford  was  pleasant.  More,  he 
monopolised  her,  at  others'  expense.  M.  du  Frettay 
called  him  "accapareur,"  and  did  not  trouble  to 
translate  the  expression.  He  tried  to  get  a  winged 
word  in  edgeways,  tried  hard, — but  the  Duke,  pre- 
suming on  his  old  acquaintance  with  the  girl,  pushed 
steadily  ahead,  and  ousted  him — clean ! 

Iveagh,  on  the  other  hand,  was  worse  than  usual, 
— dull  really  to  a  marvel.  He  was  silent,  as  he 
had  been  at  the  long-past  crisis  of  his  fate  with  Lise. 
He  looked  at  once  heated  and  pale  in  his  manner, 
sick  and  surly,  and  even  Mrs.  Redgate  could  draw 
little  response  from  him.  Since  boyhood  he  had 
been  subject  to  violent  headaches  at  times:  and  she 
could  only  suppose  that,  or  a  domestic  fracas  with 
his  mother.  Of  his  brother,  being  so  used  to  Wick- 
ford's  easy  kindliness,  and  being  absorbed  by  his 
present  manner  to  Bess,  she  did  not  think. 

Yet,  to  her  surprise  and  pain,  she  found  it  was 
so.  Later  on,  she  had  the  history  from  Wickford 
himself.  As  not  infrequently  in  that  country  place 
on  a  warm  evening,  they  all  walked  back  together, 
Rick  and  Gabriel  escorting  Adelaide  in  the  van- 
guard,— Ernestine  and  Bess  the  boys. 

"Do  you  mind  not  walking  so  fast,  Wick?"  sug- 


BESS  127 

gested  Ernestine  in  the  lane.  "I'm  not  quite  so 
young  as  Bess." 

"I'd  sooner  keep  in  hearing,"  said  the  young  man 
savagely:  really,  his  tone  was  nearly  that.  The 
roughness  both  brothers  could  show  at  moments  was 
at  the  worst.  It  was  lucky,  indeed,  du  Frettay  was 
not  there,  for  it  is  more  than  probable  he  would  have 
cuffed  him. 

Ernestine  was  silent  a  second  in  sheer  wonder. 
"Wick,  my  dear  boy, — "  she  said.  She  could  of 
course  only  conceive  of  one  explanation,  jealousy. 
What  else  could  it  possibly  be?  After  an  evening 
of  keeping  Bess  entirely  to  his  little  ducal  self, 
Wickford  was  jealous  of  Iveagh  having  her  for  five 
minutes.  It  was  really  not  more  than  that  to  the 
Holmer  lodge. 

"Oh, — Lord,"  muttered  Wickford,  just  audible. 
Then  he  turned  to  her.  "You'd  better  hear.  We 
had  a  row  after  dinner.  I  shall  have  to  write  to 
Trenchard,  that's  all.  He'd  better  go  and  be 
d — done  with."  He  just  caught  back  a  stronger 
expression.  "Sorry,  Mrs.  Redgate.  I  can't  man- 
age him  alone,  that's  all.  In  that  state  he  does  for 
me.  Trenchard' 11  take  him  by  the  scruff,  put  the 
fear  of "  Once  more  he  swallowed  the  full 


128  HATCHWAYS 

phrase,  just  in  time.  Wickford,  decidedly,  had 
been  moved,  for  him. 

After  a  minute  more  of  marvelling,  a  clear 
thought  came  to  replace  the  unjust  one  in  Ernestine's 
mind.  Jealousy,  indeed! — when  he  was  protecting 
Bess !  Her  Bess. 

"Drinking  again*?"  she  said  gently. 

"Mean  you  didn't  see  it*?  Well,  that's  something 
to  be  thankful  for.  I  told  him  he  was  not  to  come 
down  to  you.  Course  he  did,  wouldn't  have  other- 
wise,— I  was  a  fool.  I  said  I'd  lock  the  spirits, — 
hang  it,  I'm  master  there !  He  said  I  was  welcome 
and  so  on, — do  as  I  liked  on  my  premises, — he'd  no 
idea  of  remaining  under  my  charge." 

"Wick!     You  didn't  quarrel?" 

"No,"  said  the  Irishman  grimly,  "we  nearly 
fought.  I  said  a  few  pretty  healthy  things, — can't 
help  it  for  my  life  when  he  sneers, — a  kid  like  that. 
You  saw  how  his  eyes  looked.  .  .  .  He's  not  been 

like  that  to  me  since — since Look  here,"  he 

broke  off.  "I'd  better  go  after  them.  Once 
through  the  gate,  it's  as  black  as  pitch  in  the  avenue. 
Will  you  let  me,  Mrs.  Redgate^  Never  mind  what 
I  say."  This  last  was  a  belated  apology,  on  the 
Duke  of  Wickford' s  part. 

"Wait."     He  was  going,  actually,  to  leave  her 


BESS  129 

in  the  lurch,  but  she  stopped  him.  "Listen,  Wick, 
— you're  excited.  Let  me  say  one  thing, — Bess  will 
be  better  than  you.  Better  for  Iveagh.  I  don't 
think,"  said  Ernestine,  "that  anyone  cares  for  Bess 
more  than  I  do, — but  I'm  not  afraid." 

"I  am,"  said  Wickford  wretchedly.  "You  don't 
know  him." 

"You  mean  he  would  say  anything  to  hurt  her, — 
a  girl?" 

"Oh,  Lord  knows.  He's  not  himself.  He's  been 
up  and  down  lately:  but  to-night  it's  down, — very 
low." 

"It's  not  low  down,"  said  Ernestine.  She  was 
not  the  least  aware  of  making  a  joke.  "I  mean," 
she  resumed  after  a  pause,  as  Wickford  seemed  to 
be  calming,  "he  would  not  make  Bess  suffer  because 
of  his  suffering, — my  Bess." 

"No,"  muttered  Wickford.  Her  Bess,  that  was 
the  point.  His  brother  he  knew,  at  the  worst,  would 
have  regard  to  anything  that  was  hers.  All  the 
time,  Mrs.  Redgate  was  repeating  internally,  "Is  it 
so1?  Are  you  in  love  with  her?  But  how  sudden, 
how  strangely  sudden,  Wickford,  if  it  is."  Nor, 
till  afterwards,  did  she  think  about  the  Duchess  at 
all,  so  greatly  was  she  stirred  and  perplexed. 

They  came  up  with  Bess  and  Iveagh  standing 


130  HATCHWAYS 

under  the  last  of  the  thick  trees'  shadow,  just  before 
the  open  drive  swept  round  to  the  Duchess's  door. 
The  Duke's  drive  and  door  they  were,  of  course, 
only  the  Duchess's  hand,  in  Ernestine's  memories, 
was  so  clearly  upon  them.  Iveagh  and  Bess  were 
not  speaking.  He  stood  very  still  in  the  shadow, 
quiet  as  death. 

"Won't  you  come  in,  Mrs.  Redgate1?"  said  Wick- 
ford,  in  something  like  his  ordinary  tone.  "Mother 
is  there, — she'd  like  it." 

"I  think  not,  thanks,"  said  Ernestine.  "I  told 
Rick  we  would  not  keep  him  waiting.  They'll  be 
back  at  the  gate  by  now." 

She  gave  her  hand  to  Iveagh  in  the  darkness, — 
he  touched  it  merely,  did  not  take.  Taking  that 
hand  would  have  committed  him  to  a  fresh  effort, 
it  would  have  meant  struggling  further,  a  promise, 
well  he  knew!  He  had  promised  enough,  he 
thought  that  night,  to  women:  spent  himself  enough 
for  them.  He  had  struggled  sufficiently  far.  He 
intended  to  rest  now  a  bit,  if  he  could  get  to  London, 
or  Oxford,  anywhere  safe  away.  East  Africa  bet- 
ter than  nowhere,  since  Wick  willed  it  now  along 
with  the  others, — get  a  good  start,  and  then  drop 
behind  Sir  George.  .  .  . 

"Good   night,    Miss   Ryeborn,"    said   Wickford. 


BESS  131 

"Sorry  you  wouldn't  come  in.  Come  along — " 
The  last  to  his  brother,  much  as  if  he  had  been  a 
dog. 

"Good  night,  Iveagh,"  said  Bess.  "I'm  so  sorry 
about  poor  Timrnins." 

Timmins !  Paralysis,  on  the  part  of  the  auditors, 
— Iveagh's  relative,  and  Bess's.  Paralysis,  only  to 
be  remedied  by  a  violent  move  by  Wickford,  fetch- 
ing, as  it  were,  his  enigmatic  brother  out  of  the  toils. 

Timmins!  Timmins  was  the  stable  cat,  a  plain 
torn  tabby,  that  patrolled  the  yard  at  Holmer,  care- 
fully named  by  Bess  and  Iveagh  according  to  his 
dapper  looks  and  excellent  mousing  disposition: 
fetched  to  Hatchways  for  want  of  better  one  rainy 
morning,  long  since,  and  drawn  in  a  plain-cat  atti- 
tude, a  smug  attitude,  as  a  "study  of  markings" 
merely.  Timmins,  the  conscientious  model,  since 
dead  of  rat-poison,  or  poisoned  rat, — which,  Iveagh 
was  uncertain, — produced  and  pitied  at  such  a  mo- 
ment,— well ! 

"Did  Iveagh  talk  to  you?"  said  Ernestine,  when 
they  had  got  just  far  enough  along  the  avenue,  safe 
from  the  retreating  brothers,  behind  whom  the  door 
of  the  mansion  slammed,  safe  from  Rick  and  the 
clever  Frenchman,  back  from  escorting  Adelaide, 
leaning  on  the  Holmer  gate.  "Did  you  talk*?" 


132  HATCHWAYS 

"He  didn't,  much,"  said  Bess,  rather  wistfully. 
"He  asked  after  the  Pickle,  though, — remembered. 
And  he  told  me  about  Timmins,  when  I  asked." 

"I  see,"  said  Ernestine.  "Asking  about  the 
Pickle  was  wise,  of  Iveagh."  A  pause,  reproachful 
probably.  "And  asking  about  Timmins  on  your 
part  was,  I  suppose,  polite." 

"Don't  be  silly,  Ernestine,"  said  Bess.  "As  if 
Timmins  and  the  Pickle  were  equals,  socially.  .  .  . 
I  was  rather  glad  he  asked,  though,"  she  said,  after 
hesitation,  and  speaking  lower,  for  they  were  near 
enough  now  to  the  lodge-gate  to  catch  the  scent  of 
du  Frettay's  cigarette.  "Because  to-night,  you 
know,  up  at  Hatchways,  he  seemed  so  very  cross." 

Cross!     And  in  that  little,  shaken  tone.  .  .  . 

"Wickford  has  better  manners,"  said  Ernestine, 
guilty  of  experiment.  But  really,  she  did  so  want 
to  know, — for  Gertrude's  sake. 

"Oh  yes,  he's  nice — "  In  a  most  unsatisfied 
voice.  "I  always  liked  Wickford,"  admitted  Bess. 
After  another  pause,  a  fresh  effort  at  justice. 
"They're  both  very  good." 

"Too  good,  do  you  think?"  said  Ernestine,  in  the 
frightful  pause  that  ensued.  It  was  so  very  hard 
on  Wickford, — after  his  efforts,  too! 

"No,"  said  Bess,  reflecting.     "No.     I  don't  mind 


BESS  133 

a  man  simply  for  being  good,  it  isn't  fair.  And 
besides" — growing  warmer — "think  of  Mr.  Elphin- 
stone!  Mr.  Elphinstone — goodness! — he  was  like 
a  man  in  a  book.  He  always  made  me  think  of 
Philip  in  that  book, — you  know, — standing  and 
showing  Wickford  how  to  do  it,  and  what  he  ought 
to  be  like.  I  don't  wonder  Guy  killed  Philip " 

"It  was  the  other  way,"  said  Ernestine. 

"Was  it*?  Well,  he  did  as  bad, — worse  really 
for  Philip.  Still,"  said  Bess,  "I  don't  wonder  Guy 
took  his  revenge  like  that " 

"But,  Bess,  dear!  He  did  not  take  his  revenge. 
He  saved  Philip's  life  at  the  expense  of  his  own. 
Really,"  said  Ernestine,  piqued  -for  the  classics. 
"Rick!" 

"What's  this,"  said  Rick,  in  an  avuncular  tone, 
for  the  parties  were  now  united. 

"Only  she's  libelling  the  Heir  of  Redcliffe.  She 
says  he  murdered  Philip." 

"It  was  the  other  way,  so  far  as  I  remember,"  said 
Rick. 

"Coals  of  fire,"  said  Bess  indignantly.  "Such 
a  cowardly  revenge.  And  Philip  quite  unable 
to  do  anything, — too  ill.  No,  Ernestine, — listen! 
Wickford  would  never  do  a  thing  like  that,  it's  hope- 
less to  imagine  it.  He'd  feel  how  stale  it  was  be- 


134  HATCHWAYS 

fore  he  started, — started  for  Italy  or  wherever  it 
was.  Yes,  that's  it,"  said  Bess,  pleased  to  have  a 
definition.  "Wickford  would  never  do  anything 
really  stale.  You  could  trust  him  not  to,  when  it 
came  to  the  point." 

"I  see,"  said  Ernestine,  giving  up  the  Heir  of 
Redcliffe.  "And  Iveagh'?" 

"Oh,  he  couldn't,"  said  Bess,  hastily.  "He 
couldn't — I  don't  know — he  couldn't  be  in  that  kind 
of  book.  Iveagh's  another  author, — isn't  he,  Uncle 
Rick?' 

"Another  shelf,"  said  Rick.  "Bound  differently, 
— quite  right,  Bessie.  Wickford's  a  book  I  don't 
much  want  to  open,  between  ourselves." 

"Oh,  Uncle  Rick,  how  nasty!"  Bess  put  a  re- 
proachful, niece-like  arm  through  his.  The  gesture 
was  one  of  complete  agreement,  though  the  words 
were  not.  "I'm  afraid,  you  know,"  said  Bess,  sud- 
denly virtuous,  "we've  been  talking  personalities." 

"The  only  subject  to  talk,  Mademoiselle,"  said 
Gabriel,  speaking  for  the  first  time.  He  was  sub- 
ject to  dreams  to-night,  as  any  man  would  be  in 
this  exquisite  half-darkness,  moonsheen  through  the 
larch-boughs,  promise  of  hidden  spring. 

"Not  for  this  girl,"  said  Rick.     "She's  indifferent 


BESS  135 

to    persons,    altogether, — human    persons, — for    at 
least  six  hours  of  every  day." 

"Blessing,"  said  Bess,  thoughtfully.  Her  maiden 
thoughts  had  left  Mark  Elphinstone,  and  Wick- 
ford,  and  even  Iveagh.  They  spurned  Philip  Mor- 
ville  and  the  good  Sir  Guy.  They  skipped  M.  du 
Frettay,  charming  as  he  was, — they  avoided  Uncle 
Rick  and  his  teasing,  and  moved  forward  to  a  bas- 
ket. Bess's  heart  was  straying,  mislaying,  evi- 
dently :  yet  it  was  not  lost  beyond  recall, — since  the 
Pickle  held  part  of  it. 


IX 
MRS.  REDGATE  TAKES  A  HIGH  LINE 

WELL,  here  was  not  material  to  give  Mrs.  Redgate, 
Bess's  aunt  and  the  Duchess's  friend,  a  quiet  night. 
Yet — we  regret  thus  to  give  our  heroine  away — she 
had  one :  because  she  was  one  of  the  healthy  normal 
people  to  whom  the  wakeful  romantic  form  of  night 
was  nearly  unknown.  That  her  thinking,  when  she 
did  it,  was  not  real,  hard  thinking,  we  deny  utterly. 
Let  him  who  denies  it  try  to  take  Mrs.  Redgate's 
place,  for  just  one  Saturday  at  this  period,  when 
both  Holmer  and  Hatchways  were  full  of  guests. 
We  say  Saturday,  because  the  guests  were  largely 
week-enders,  Bess  and  M.  du  Frettay  being  the  only 
resident  visitors  at  Hatchways,  and  four  or  five  Ox- 
boroughs,  horribly  noisy,  the  permanent  residuum 
at  Holmer  House.  But  week-enders,  all  the  rest 
of  the  time,  must  be  reckoned  for.  Things  must  be 
thought  of  for  them,  engagements  made,  tastes  con- 
sulted, the  frightful  question  of  household  linen, — 
the  dark  problem  of  the  country  butcher, — the  peo- 
ple whom  they  may  meet,  or  must  not  meet,  ear- 

130 


MRS.    REDGATE    TAKES    A    LINE       137 

nestly  reviewed:  the  tired  ones  (and  so  many  of 
these  come  from  London)  successfully  concealed  in 
quiet  rooms  and  shady  hammocks:  those  that  hate 
cats  and  can  barely  tolerate  kittens  considered, — 
alas,  for  Bess! 

It  was  over  these  debates,  forethoughts  and  provi- 
dences that  Bess  proved  a  blessing,  invariably.  She 
wanted  of  course  to  paint,  being  in  the  country: 
but  she  left  her  painting  at  any  point  when  she  saw 
Ernestine  in  perplexity.  How  many  art  students 
will  do  that1?  They  regard  their  art  so  much  more 
than  their  aunt,  do  those  student-maidens,  com- 
monly. And  imagine  a  kitten-painter  who  has  just, 
after  an  hour's  patient  coaxing,  got  the  model  to 
pose ! — no,  Bess  was  a  blessing,  quite  exceptionally. 
She  went  to  the  village,  at  a  moment's  notice,  to 
blarney  the  butcher, — who  then  and  there  preferred 
her  to  the  Duchess,  and  allowed  her  the  best  joint. 
She  did  the  flowers,  all  of  them:  Ernestine,  at  her 
advent,  laid  the  whole  floral  scheme,  for  weeks,  in 
Bess's  arms.  She  never  messed  things,  or  dropped 
things,  having  the  quick  firm  fingers  of  art.  She 
wrote  a  lovely  picture-hand  on  the  menu  cards, 
which  was  also  readable.  She  washed  the  very 
best-of-all  white  china,  when  Ernestine  was  not 
quite  sure  of  the  new  maid.  She  ironed  too, — 


138  HATCHWAYS 

really  we  tremble  to  breathe  in  the  ear  of  female, 
and  waste  on  the  ear  of  male  readers,  what  kind  of 
ironing,  in  the  real  rigour  of  week-enders,  Miss  Rye- 
born  did.  Hatchways  was  not  a  large  house,  and 
its  hospitable  doors  often  stretched, — stretched  to 
straining.  .  .  .  M.  du  Frettay,  profoundly  inter- 
ested in  the  ironing  mysteries,  mentioned,  when  he 
took  occasion  to  spy  into  the  little  wash-house  be- 
yond the  scullery,  that  his  mother  did  the  same. 
That  he  spied  as  often  as  he  could,  goes  without  say- 
ing: for  Bess  in  an  apron  at  an  ironing-board,  with 
her  beautiful  arms  bare  to  the  elbow,  was  delicious 
to  behold. 

Enfin, — as  M.  du  Frettay  said, — pitch  your 
standard  at  a  certain  height,  in  hospitality,  and  no 
thinking  is  like  it:  it  is  hard,  hard  work.  Only 
whatever  you  do,  do  not  pitch  it  too  high,  or  your 
guests  themselves  become  conscious  of  the  soaring 
standard, — straining  to  breaking-point,  threatening, 
reproaching  them, — which  never  should  be. 

Ernestine's  guests  were  not  worried  by  her 
thoughts  for  their  good,  they  were  all  so  silent.  She 
and  Bess  seemed  always  to  be  easy,  and  to  have 
plenty  of  time.  Nobody  in  consequence  ever  in- 
sulted her  with — "You  must  be  tired,  dear,  do  come 
and  rest  a  little," — which  being  interpreted  means 


MRS.    REDGATE    TAKES   A   LINE       139 

— "You  are  getting  old,  and  plainer  than  I  remem- 
bered, do  for  goodness'  sake  keep  still." 

Nobody  ever  said  either — "Ernestine,  what  a 
sweet  room  this  is, — what  good  soup, — how  nicely 
you  do  things":  they  forgot  about  their  surround- 
ings, and  very  often,  about  their  food.  They  for- 
got most  things,  at  Hatchways,  beyond  that  they 
were  thankful  to  get  there,  and  powerfully  sorry  to 
leave.  And  the  weary, — the  really  tired  ones, — 
we  will  not  speak  of  them.  We  have  seen  how,  to 
Sir  George  and  such  workers,  the  very  thought  of 
Hatchways  was  peace.  And  it  was  they,  needless 
to  say,  wanderers  and  ponderers  in  the  world's  cause, 
— the  worn  official,  the  shrinking  success,  the  con- 
scious failure, — that  Ernestine  was  really  happy  to 
have. 

Only  not  cranks,  she  avoided  them:  or  they 
avoided  her,  we  cannot  be  certain  which.  Ernes- 
tine, and  her  husband  as  well,  had  a  taste  for  sanity. , 

The  Holmer  house-party  did  not  invade  the 
Hatchways  house-party  often:  though  the  invasion 
was  certainly  that  way  round  when  it  came.  Hol- 
mer hospitality,  compact  of  "English  pretension  and 
Irish  untidiness," — that  most  uncharitable  saying  of 
Marchant's — came  to  look,  at  times:  to  look  at, 


140  HATCHWAYS 

discontentedly,  and  see  how  Ernestine  did  it.  The 
Oxborough  party  assaulted  her  precincts  in  the 
morning,  by  preference,  when  least  required,  both 
sexes  tightly  bound  in  tweed  and  shod  in  calf,  both, 
as  a  rule,  dropping  their  cigarette-ends  into  the 
crocus-bed  before  they  entered, — but  they  came,  al- 
most invariably,  to  see  where  Wickford  or  Iveagh 
was.  Having  attained  some  news  of  those  truant 
members  of  the  Holmer  household,  that  pair  of 
traitors  to  the  Oxborough  tradition,  they  generally 
remarked  on  something  they  saw  with  unvarnished 
sincerity,  untainted  by  any  courteous  intention, 
looked  carefully  at  the  "painting-girl"  or  blankly  at 
the  Frenchman,  and  went  away  again. 

Rarely,  however,  they  pounced  upon  and  carried 
off  the  defaulting  cousin,  nephew,  or  grandson, 
Iveagh  or  Wick.  Iveagh  always,  and  the  Duke  as 
often  as  possible,  melted  into  the  atmosphere  when 
Oxboroughs  were  about.  They  disappeared  with 
the  greatest  precision  and  unanimity  when  especially 
two  Oxboroughs  graced  their  mother's  board, — two 
uncles,  Giles  and  Oliver,  loathed  by  both.  Iveagh, 
the  more  pure-blooded  cave-dweller,  was  then  never 
to  be  found,  no  corner  of  the  estate,  treacherous 
breeze  or  untrustworthy  leaf,  disclosed  him.  Wick- 
ford,  intermingled  with  a  Saxon  stock,  was  forced 


MRS.    REDGATE    TAKES    A    LINE       141 

at  moments  to  materialise;  but  he  was  at  his  stiffest 
and  least  expressive  when  he  did  so;  and  he  had, 
of  course,  at  his  uncles'  hands,  to  suffer  for  two. 

Things  generally  went  from  bad  to  worse  on  these 
occasions,  until,  boisterously  urged  by  all  the  family, 
the  Duchess  was  driven  to  intervene. 

Thus,  one  fine  morning,  came  the  Duchess  in 
person,  stepping  under  the  larch-trees,  and  down  the 
Hatchways  drive.  She  looked  about  her  as  she 
came,  keen-eyed,  seeking  her  defaulters;  and  caught 
a  glimpse,  through  branches,  of  a  hammock  and  a 
tired  guest.  The  branches  were  not  leafy  enough 
yet  to  do  their  duty,  and  Ernestine  had  apologised 
for  them ;  however,  even  the  Duchess  dared  not  push 
her  exploration  further  in  that  direction,  so  she  pur- 
sued her  way. 

Then  she  perceived  Miss  Elizabeth  Ryeborn, 
known  to  Oxboroughs  as  the  painting-girl,  peace- 
fully installed  with  two  cats  and  a  sketch-book,  on 
a  rug  on  the  grass  beneath  the  study  window,  where 
there  is  no  creeper,  and  one  can  have  one's  back  to 
the  wall. 

"Then  he's  not  there,"  thought  the  Duchess,  her 
maternal  thoughts,  as  usual,  caressing  her  eldest- 
born.  "Let's  hope,  granted  he's  not  there,  he's 
where  he  ought  to  be." 


HATCHWAYS 

She  pursued,  stepping  lightly  and  firmly,  for  she 
was  a  well-set-up  little  woman,  round  the  corner 
where  the  pink  tree  or  Pyrus  is  to  the  Hatchways 
hall  door.  There  was  Rick,  master  of  the  estate, 
not  to  say  the  pink  tree  or  Pyrus, — 'which  was  more 
advanced  than  the  Duchess's, — sunning  himself  with 
the  Times  newspaper.  Whether  his  spectacles  were 
turned  on  one  of  his  own  articles  we  leave  open  to 
conjecture, — he  seemed  content. 

"Hullo,"  said  Rick.  "Good  morning.  Come 
after  Nesta?  She's  somewhere  about." 

The  Duchess  lowered  her  sunshade  with  a  click. 
She  was  no  stickler  for  decorum,  at  least  from  people 
whom  she  regarded  as  her  equals. 

"I've  come,  Mr.  Redgate,"  she  said  monument- 
ally, "to  find  my  sons." 

"Really  now,  I  haven't  seen  'em,"  said  Rick, 
giving  his  learned  mind  to  it.  "There's  du  Frettay, 
now,  he  might  know  about  'em, — he's  working  in 
there." 

"Thanks,"  said  the  Duchess,  who  had  seen  M.  du 
Frettay's  dark  head  in  the  study,  to  the  rear  of  Miss 
Ryeborn  and  the  cats.  Working,  she  privately 
thought,  was  one  way  of  putting  it,  considering  a 
girl  under  the  window.  Ernestine  ought  to  look 
after  that  child  better,  with  Frenchmen  about. 


MRS.    REDGATE    TAKES    A    LINE       143 

"No,"  said  the  Duchess  aloud.  "I  can  do  with- 
out M.  du  Frettay,  since  he  is  well  occupied — evi- 
dently  " 

"A  votre  service,"  called  M.  du  Frettay,  from  be- 
hind the  half-open  study  door.  That  was  Hatch- 
ways all  over, — doors  and  windows  standing  open, 
all  the  morning  air  invading  all  the  domestic  in- 
terior,— there  was  no  proper  privacy  when  one  ap- 
peared at  the  unconventional  hour. 

"Stay  where  you  are,"  called  the  Duchess,  "unless 
you  know  exactly  where  Wickford  is,  then  you  can 
come  out." 

Silence,  profound.  M.  du  Frettay,  taking  her  at 
her  word,  had  recurred  to  his  so-called  labours.  He 
repaid  incivility  with  incivility, — it  is  such  nonsense 
about  his  countrymen's  manners!  The  Duchess 
registered  this  as  a  specimen  of  French  form,  to  be 
discussed  amid  Oxboroughs  that  evening. 

"Ask  Bess  where  Nesta  is,"  called  Rick.  Was 
there  ever  such  an  easy-going  establishment? 

"Willingly,"  called  M.  du  Frettay,  reviving. 
"Did  I  know  where  is  your  niece." 

"You  hypocrite !"  thought  the  Duchess. 

"Ernestine  is  down  at  the  chickens,"  said  a  sweet 
dreamy  tone  in  the  void :  the  voice  of  a  young  lady, 
lost  in  art  and  circled  by  kittens,  who  was  very 


144  HATCHWAYS 

happy  indeed.  "I  mean  the  incubators.  Shall  I 
come,  Uncle  Rick1?" 

"No,"  said  Rick.  "You  stop  where  you  are." 
And,  folding  up  the  Times  newspaper,  he  escorted 
the  Duchess  himself. 

"You  incubate,  do  you?"  she  said,  on  the  way. 

"She's  taken  to  it,"  said  Rick.  "Only  on  trial, 
though.  If  it  doesn't  work  out,  in  money  and 
trouble,  I  advised  her  to  give  it  up." 

"I  should  say,"  said  the  Duchess,  "she'd  do  that 
without  you,  Mr.  Redgate." 

She  put  down  certain  sides  of  her  friend  Ernes- 
tine, we  may  mention,  as  "commercial."  She 
thought,  good  style  as  dear  Ernestine  was,  it  would 
not  take  very  deep  seeking  to  discover  commercial 
origins  or  roots  to  the  Ryeborn  family.  It  came 
from  the  north, — the  north  midland, — and  she 
suspected  Manchester.  Both  aunt  and  niece  used 
quaint  northern  phrases  at  times.  When  the 
Duchess  was  really  displeased  with  Ernestine,  she 
added  to  her  image  a  Manchester  background.  Be- 
ing very  deeply  displeased  this  morning,  on  Wick- 
ford's  account,  she  did  so  now. 

"Well,"  said  Ernestine's  husband,  "she's  not 
without  a  sense  of  finance,  I'll  grant  you.  Du  Fret- 
tay  there  is  surprised  I  don't  let  her  do  more, — give 


MRS.    REDGATE    TAKES    A    LINE       145 

her  scope,  as  he  calls  it.  We  were  talking  about  it 
lately." 

"Don't  you  give  in  to  his  ideas,"  said  the 
Duchess:  who  was  all  for  the  rights  of  woman,  un- 
less they  happened  to  be  upheld  by  France.  Then 
she  upheld  the  rights  of  English  custom,  as  opposed 
to  French  custom, — the  man  with  a  close  hand  on 
the  money-bags.  As  for  her  own  case — well,  it  was 
exceptional.  She  was  a  widow,  and  a  mother: 
Wickford,  man  as  he  undoubtedly  was,  could  not 
be  allowed  to  know  which  things  were  which,  just 
at  present. 

"I  shouldn't  think  of  giving  in,"  explained  Rick. 
"His  ideas  are  rubbish,  half  of  'em.  But  he's  amus- 
ing to  listen  to.  Really,  I  like  that  young  man." 

The  Duchess  sniffed,  faintly.  She  granted  him 
leave  to  like  Gabriel  du  Frettay,  within  bounds,  the 
young  fellow  accruing  to  her  personal  estate,  via 
George.  She  undertook  herself,  in  her  single  per- 
son, to  keep  du  Frettay  in  his  place,  if  he  became 
nationally  obstreperous. 

They  found  Ernestine  at  the  chickens,  quiet  trag- 
edy upon  her  countenance.  She  extended  her  left 
hand,  mutely,  to  her  husband  as  he  came  up  the 
path. 

"Hullo!"     said    Rick,     looking.     "That's    bad. 


146  HATCHWAYS 

Not  a  fox,  is  it?"  For  she  held  a  small,  dead  yel- 
low chicken  in  one  hand. 

"That's  not  a  fox,"  said  the  Duchess  with  an  ex- 
perienced eye.  "That's  a  cat,  probably." 

"A  cat?"  Rick's  face  grew  long  as  well.  "All 
right.  Poor  girl,  we  won't  tell  her.  It  got  out,  I 
suppose?" 

"I  put  them  in  the  coop,  for  an  hour,  to  run," 
said  Ernestine  regretfully.  "I  thought  the  sun 
wouldn't  hurt  them.  I  suppose  there  was  a  hole." 

"Requiescat,"  said  Rick,  half  sympathising,  half 
chaffing  her.  Indeed,  there  was  no  marked  com- 
merciality,  that  moment,  about  his  wife.  'Til  bury 
it.  Bess  never  counted  'em,  did  she?  Very  well, 
then,  we  won't  let  on." 

Thus  Rick,  the  good  uncle,  and  away  he  went, 
with  the  chicken,  to  find  a  spade.  Ernestine,  hav- 
ing reimprisoned  the  rest  of  the  brood,  left  the 
atmosphere  of  incubators,  which  was  stuffy,  rather, 
for  Gertrude,  and  went  with  her  instead  to  a  seat: 
a  seat  in  a  place  which  was  not  precisely  a  view- 
point, but  urged  one  to  get  up,  after  resting  a  little, 
and  find  a  view.  Many  of  the  Hatchways  seats 
were  unfixed  like  this,  "wayside  stopping-places" 
(like  Happiness)  tempting  one  on.  And  yet  you 
could  be  happy  upon  any  of  them. 


MRS.    REDGATE    TAKES   A    LINE      147 

"Now,  Ernestine,"  said  the  Duchess  monument- 
ally, sitting  in  the  extreme  corner  of  the  seat,  and 
disdaining  cushions  extended.  "Will  you  tell  me 
exactly  where  my  boy  is,  with  that  girl  of  yours. 
It's  time  I  knew  about  it." 

Mrs.  Redgate,  of  course,  had  expected  this,  sooner 
or  later.  Considering  the  week  that  lay  behind  her, 
since  Bess's  arrival,  and  considering  Gertrude's  strict 
watchfulness  on  all  girls  in  her  precious  son's  vicin- 
ity at  all  times,  it  was  bound  to  come.  Yet  not- 
withstanding her  expectation,  her  preparation,  and 
her  clear  conscience,  she  was  startled  by  Gertrude's 
tone.  To  disturb  her,  in  the  morning,  with  a  tone 
like  that,  was  trying  of  Gertrude, — it  really  was. 
She  would  sooner,  in  the  name  of  friendliness,  have 
been  warned. 

"I  really  cannot  tell  you,"  she  said  gently,  though 
in  the  manner  of  parrying.  "Had  you  not  better 
ask  himself?" 

"Apart  from  the  fact,"  said  the  Duchess,  "that 
Wickford  makes  himself,  since  my  brother  Giles' 
arrival  on  Friday  night,  as  hard  as  possible  to  find, 
owing  to  his  own  brother's  example " 

"Unjust,"  said  the  little  indicator  in  Ernestine; 
her  eyes  merely  wandered,  seeking  the  elusive  view. 

" — Quite  apart  from  that,"  said  the  Duchess,  "it 


148  HATCHWAYS 

is  highly  improbable  things  are  at  a  stage  when  any- 
thing could  be  drawn  from  Wickford.  I  hope 
naturally  they  will  never  reach  a  stage  when  I  need 
to  enquire, — still  less  when  he  comes  to  tell  me  of 
his  own  accord.  It  is,  however,  time  for  me  to  face 
the  fact  that  he  is  flirting,  if  flirting  he  is:  and  I 
expect — I  ask  you  as  a  friend  to  tell  me." 

Ernestine,  having  lifted  her  buckler  a  little  higher 
during  the  course  of  that  speech,  laid  it  down  beside 
her  at  the  end.  It  was  inevitable  to  think  of  her  in 
military  panoply,  armed,  as  she  sat  at  the  other  end 
of  the  Duchess's  seat. 

"Gertrude,"  she  said,  "you  will  excuse  me,  but 
there  is  only  one  thing  I  can  possibly  say  to  reassure 
you.  I  really  don't  think  Bess  cares  for  Wickford." 

"Oh."  Pause.  "Well,"  said  the  Duchess,  "that 
is  something,  though " 

"Excuse  me,  it  is  everything,"  said  Ernestine. 
Pause.  "If  you  tell  me,"  she  resumed,  "that  Bess 
would  accept  Wickford  on  any  ground  but  that  of 
really  caring  for  him " 

Pause.  "Well,"  said  the  Duchess,  "this  is  hardly 
on  the  point " 

"It  is  exactly  on  it,"  said  Ernestine.  Were  they 
going  to  quarrel,  really"?  She  felt  some  doubt, 
knowing  her  friend's  weaknesses  and  peculiarities. 


MRS.    REDGATE    TAKES    A    LINE       149 

But  these  things  had  to  be  said.  It  was  better  to 
get  them  said,  and  come  on  to  the  kinder  part,  if  it 
could  be  managed,  afterwards. 

Now,  the  Duchess  considered  herself  debarred  by 
friendship,  which  she  took  quite  seriously,  from 
stating  her  real  conviction,  which  was  that  a  non- 
descript little  girl  like  Bess,  of  probably  commercial, 
and  possibly  Manchester,  antecedents,  is  bound  to 
throw  everything  to  the  winds  for  the  chance  of  a 
Duchess's  coronet.  Instead,  she  gave  Ernestine's 
good  sense  the  credit  of  knowing  this,  while  she  took 
a  high  line  in  the  matter  for  the  sake  of  her  dignity. 
The  Duchess  hardly  thought  the  worse  of  her  for 
it,  either;  though  she  could  not  believe  Ernestine 
had  not  been  exulting  in  spirit  during  the  critical 
week  past. 

"May  I  ask,"  she  said,  after  an  interval,  "what 
evidence  you  have  of  Miss  Ryeborn's  indifference*?" 

"Oh  dear  no,  Gertrude,  you  mayn't  indeed. 
Why,"  said  Ernestine,  "I  might  as  well  ask  you  what 
evidence  you  hold  of  your  son's  serious — or  of  his 
honest  intentions." 

"Ernestine !" 

"Exactly,"  said  Ernestine,  and  laughed,  glancing 
eye  to  eye.  "You  wouldn't  like  it." 

The  Duchess  strove  hard  for  anything  like  her 


150  HATCHWAYS 

ordinary  point  of  view.  Things,  for  the  moment, 
seemed  to  be  crumbling.  "You're  Manchester," 
she  said  to  herself.  "You  mayn't  be  more.  I  am 
extremely  modern  and  amiable  not  to  snub  you." 
Thus  she  clutched  things,  and  pulled  them  straight 
again. 

"Take  it,"  she  said  dryly,  "that  I  have  been  rather 
full  up  with  my  people  for  a  week  past, — too  much 
so  to  see  as  much  as  I  might  have  seen,  had  I  been 
at  liberty." 

Ernestine  assented.  "Take  it  that  I  have  too. 
Still,  since  I  know  them  both,  I  really  see  no  harm 
in  it " 

"No  harm?' 

"No  harm,  surely,  in  their  understanding  one 
another,  granted  of  course  they  know  their  own 
minds.  M.  du  Frettay,"  said  Ernestine,  "would  be 
rather  shocked  at  me " 

"M.  du  Frettay?" 

"Yes.  You  know  the  French  think  that  you  and 
I,  because  we're  married,  ought  to  know  better 
about  such  things  than  Wickford  or  Bess.  I  don't 
think  so, — I  told  him  I  didn't " 

"You  spoke  to  him  about  the  matter*?" 

"No,  we  were  talking  generally.  However" — 
she  recurred — "I  really  think  Bess  knows  her  own 


MRS.    REDGATE    TAKES    A    LINE      151 

mind,  Gertrude.  I  really  think  you  need  have  no 
fear." 

During  the  interval  that  ensued,  the  Duchess's 
faded  little  Oxborough  face  was  set.  So  far,  the 
morning's  business  had  not  turned  out  at  all  as  she 
had  arranged  it.  She  had  come,  speaking  broadly, 
of  course,  to  scold  Ernestine.  Ernestine  had  hin- 
dered that,  by  her  high  line,  almost  from  the  first. 
Now  she,  the  Duchess  of  Wickford,  was  to  be  re- 
assured, it  seemed,  but  not  at  all  in  the  way  she 
wished.  That  Wickford  should,  in  any  circum- 
stances, let  himself  in  for  a  refusal  .  .  .  and  yet  she 
knew  too  well  she  could  count  on  neither  of  those 
wretched  boys  for  proper  pride.  Fear,  even  im- 
minent fear,  of  a  refusal  would  not  stay  Wickford, 
should  he  so  choose,  from  laying  himself  at  Miss 
Ryeborn's  feet.  A  far  more  humiliating  certainty 
had  not  stayed  Iveagh.  .  .  .  The  Duchess's  warrior 
nostril  dilated,  and  her  brow  knit.  She  would 
greatly  have  liked,  at  that  minute,  to  slap  them 
both.  .  .  . 

"Well,"  she  said,  moving.  "I  suppose  that  is 
all  you  think  you  can  tell  me.  I  had  an  idea  I  knew 
you  better  than  that." 

"I'm  sorry,  Gertrude,  really.  I  have  been  a  little 
— puzzled  myself." 


152  HATCHWAYS 

"Indeed?     On  what  grounds?" 

"I  thought  it  odd  of  Wickford, — unlike  him. 
They  have  never  been  anything  but  friends  before." 

"Oh.  Well,  Wickford's  not  particularly  given 
to  warning  one  of  his  intentions,  if  that's  all.  At 
least  they  are  not  together  at  this  moment?" 

"No,"  said  Ernestine.  "When  Bess  is  drawing, 
she  prefers  to  be  alone." 

"Oh,  that's  why,  is  it?"  thought  the  Duchess. 
"By  the  way,"  she  said,  "I  meant  to  tell  you.  I 
shouldn't  trust  that  young  fellow  Frettay  too  far." 

Mrs.  Redgate  coloured,  and  almost  started.  At 
least  she  turned  her  head.  "With  Bess,  do  you 
mean?' 

"Whom  else  should  I  mean?"  The  Duchess 
glanced  coolly  at  her.  It  was  fair  return  for  the 
stroke  at  Wickford,  anyhow. 

"Well?"  she  said,  after  a  long  interlude. 

"I  suppose  it's  extraordinarily  hard  for  me  to  dis- 
trust anybody,"  said  Ernestine,  slowly.  "Certainly 
I  could  not  M.  du  Frettay.  I  was  just  wondering 
if  I  could." 

"He's  a  Parisian,"  said  the  Duchess,  digging  the 
point  of  her  sunshade  in  the  soft  grass.  "Parisians 
are  all  the  same." 


MRS.    REDGATE    TAKES    A    LINE       153 

"They  may  be.     But  really, — he  works  so  hard." 

"Works?" 

"Yes.  I  never  knew  anyone  so  hard-working. 
He  simply  slaves  at  those  plans  of  his  all  the  morn- 
ing,— even  these  lovely  mornings, — as  you  probably 
saw.  And  goodness  knows  at  what  time  of  day  he 
starts.  I  asked  him  to  let  me  know,"  said  Ernes- 
tine, "because  of  breakfast.  I  promised  him  food 
at  any  hour  after  six  he  liked." 

"Six*?"  said  the  Duchess:  who  had  not  herself 
troubled  to  feed  M.  du  Frettay  before  half -past 
nine,  when  under  her  charge. 

"Yes,  but  he  only  laughed.  He  seems  to  think  a 
man  can  work  for  three  hours  on  nothing  at  all. 
It's  not  good  for  him,"  said  Ernestine,  "and  when 
he's  supposed  to  be  resting,  too.  Really,  we  shall 
have  to  teach  him  better  ways." 

"You  are  talking  a  good  deal  this  morning," 
thought  the  Duchess ;  a  propos  of  nothing,  of  course, 
unless  the  little  flush  in  Ernestine's  face,  which  was 
still  there.  She  was  a  person  who  changed  colour 
rarely.  "You  are  quite  a  pretty  woman  still,"  she 
added  to  the  thought,  as  her  friend  got  up  of  a  sud- 
den and  walked  away  from  the  seat,  as  though  to 
discover  that  elusive  view. 


154  HATCHWAYS 

"Well,  so  I  suppose  you  got  him  to  accept  break- 
fast," she  said,  still  digging  little  holes  in  the  turf, 
when  Ernestine  came  back. 

"At  seven, — we  compromised,"  said  Ernestine, — 
who  had  found  the  view  in  the  interval,  and  looked 
more  contented.  She  had  had  to  overcome  a  rage 
of  anger  with  Gertrude:  not  at  all  uncommon,  we 
may  mention,  in  that  society.  The  flush  had  been 
anger,  purely;  for,  like  all  strong  natures,  she  had 
a  store  of  deep  anger  within.  .  .  .  Doubly  sus- 
pected,— twice  insulted  in  one  conversation. 
Really,  it  was  only  Gertrude  who  could  do  such 
things,  and  still  expect  to  be  liked! 

"What  does  du  Frettay  work  at?"  said  the 
Duchess,  watching  her.  They  were  now  face  to 
face. 

"Oh,  plans  of  those  machines.  He  has  got  hold 
of  a  new  idea  for  one,  since  he  has  been  across,  and 
is  trying  it, — trying  to  work  it  out.  Iveagh  under- 
stands,— it's  too  much  for  most  of  us.  By  the  way, 
Gertrude, — " 

"Well?' 

"Perhaps  I  ought  to  tell  you.  They  won't  like 
me  for  it.  Have  you  any  objection  to  Iveagh  going 
up?" 

"Up?" 


MRS.    REDGATE    TAKES    A    LINE       155 

"Flying,  yes.  Because,  unless  you  stop  him,  he 
certainly  will." 

Another  pause,  during  which  the  Duchess  recov- 
ered. We  had  perhaps  better  repeat,  this  was  in 
the  infant  days  of  English  aviation,  accidents  at 
every  turn. 

"If  Iveagh  asks  my  permission,"  she  said  coldly, 
"I  shall  refuse  it,  naturally." 

"Not  otherwise?" 

"Otherwise,  he  will  do  what  he  likes." 

Mrs.  Redgate  walked  away  again, — then  came 
back  and  stood  beside  her.  "It's  dangerous,"  she 
mentioned.  "Suppose  he  were  killed." 

"Suppose,"  said  the  Duchess,  "your  little  French- 
man was." 

"If  my  little  Frenchman  was" — her  low  tone  con- 
centrated— "his  mother  would  go  down  to  the  grave 
sorrowing  within  a  week.  I  am  sure  of  that,  any- 
how, from  Sir  George." 

"Ah,"  said  the  Duchess,  dropping  her  eyes.  "No 
doubt." 

"It  was  because  of  the  danger,  of  course,  Iveagh 
accepted,"  pursued  Ernestine, — persisted,  is  a  better 
word.  It  took  courage,  with  that  face  before  her. 

"I  dare  say.  Iveagh  will  take  any  risks,  won't 
he? — except  the  ones  we  advise." 


156  HATCHWAYS 

"Do  you  advise  him  risks'?  I  shouldn't, 
Gertrude.  I  mean,  he's  far  too  fond  of  them. 
He'll  choose,  of  his  own  accord,  the  worst  he  can 
find." 

"So  his  brother  tells  me." 

"And  why,  does  Wickford  say"?  .  .  .  Because  he 
cannot  believe, — nothing  will  persuade  him, — that 
anybody  really  cares  whether  he  lives  or  dies." 

"Thank  you,  Ernestine.  ...  I  care,  and  he 
knows  it.  If  he  gives  me  a  chance  of  stating  my 
feelings,  about  that  flying  nonsense,  I  shall  do  so, 
gladly.  Not  otherwise." 

"But  you  know  he  won't,"  thought  Ernestine. 
"You  know  he  won't,  Gertrude!  So  you  don't 
care.  You  don't  care  really.  .  .  .  Isn't  it  getting 
a  little  cold*?"  she  said  aloud.  "There's  a  fire  in 
the  breakfast-room, — do  come  in." 

Iveagh,  who  had  been  riding  all  day,  nobody 
knew  where,  brought  home  a  young  rabbit  to  Bess. 
He  laid  it  beside  her  on  the  grass  in  the  evening 
light,  and  prepared  at  once  to  depart  again.  But 
her  exclamation  of  rapture  delayed  him. 

"Oh,"  said  Bess.  "Ok!  Where's  your 
mother?" 

She  addressed  the  rabbit,  which  was  petrified  as 


MRS.    REDGATE    TAKES    A    LINE      157 

a  little  image  with  terror,  having  been  carried  for 
an  hour  in  a  gentleman's  pocket. 

"I  shot  the  mother,"  said  Iveagh. 

"You  didn't !"  She  gazed  frightened,  indignant, 
kneeling  upon  the  grass,  the  rabbit  in  her  hands. 
"Oh,  you're  always  shooting  things.  Go  away!" 

"Why*?"  said  Iveagh:  and  prepared  to  stay  at 
once :  he  had  not  meant  to,  previously.  He  stopped, 
hung  about,  pretended  to  whistle,  and  picked  up 
Bess's  drawing-book. 

"You're  a  murderer,"  said  Bess,  cherishing  the 
orphan  against  her  white  neck.  "Red-handed, — I 
hate  you.  Iveagh,  I  don't  want  you  to  look  at 
that.  Put  it  down — "  Pause.  "Please." 

Iveagh  put  it  down.  "What  did  you  kill  it  for?" 
said  Bess. 

"Why  wouldn't  I,  when  the  place  is  rotten,"  said 
Iveagh,  his  eyes  straying.  "They're  gnawin'  up 
Merchant's  young  trees.  Marchant  gettin'  frisky 
at  Oxford, — wired  me  to  see  to  it, — so  I  went." 

"Why  didn't  you  kill  this,  then?"  Bess's  accus- 
ing eyes  were  upon  him. 

"Thought  you'd  like  it,"  mumbled  Iveagh.  His 
errant  gaze  met  hers  a  second.  "Do  you?" 

"Yes.  Of  course.  It's  as  soft  as — soft.  Where 
are  you  going  now?" 


158  HATCHWAYS 

"Home  to  dinner." 

"Wickford  will  be  horribly  cross  with  you,"  said 
Bess.  "He's  had  a  horrid  day." 

"I  wouldn't  make  a  third,"  remarked  Iveagh, 
with  the  shadow  of  a  smile.  "Addy  in  a  wax  isn't 
entertainin'." 

"There!  You  know  all  about  it.  Of  course  he 
told  me, — at  least  not  about  her.  Why  couldn't 
you  be  nice,  and  go?  He's  always  doing  things  for 
you." 

Iveagh  lifted  his  eyebrows,  or  rather  one  of  them ; 
and  prepared  again  to  depart.  "Come  up,"  he  said, 
in  the  act  of  leaving,  "and  see  my  Uncle  Giles  to- 
morrow." 

"Good  gracious!     Why?" 

"Only  he's  worth  seein'." 

Bess  considered  whether  she  could  venture.  She 
decided  her  courage  would  not  stand  it.  "I  can't," 
she  said,  "unless  your  mother  asks  me.  Or  Wick- 
ford." 

"Hullo !     Why  Wick  more'n  me?" 

"Because,"  said  Miss  Ryeborn  very  clearly,  "he 
is  the  owner  of  the  house  you  are  asking  me  to." 

"Good  night,"  said  Iveagh. 

"Good  night."  Then  a  soft  call.  "Iveagh,— 
thank  you." 


MRS.    REDGATE    TAKES    A   LINE      159 

He  swung  round  wondering,  saw  the  child-rabbit 
clasped  to  her  throat  as  she  knelt,  and  had  the 
thanks  explained.  He  only  looked  direct  at  the 
sight  a  moment,  with  that  odd  gaze  of  his,  at  once 
deliberate  and  furtive,  as  though  the  use  of  his  eyes 
was  destined  really  to  something  quite  different. 
Then  he  went. 

"Oh,  goodness,"  whispered  Bess  to  the  little  rab- 
bit. "I  love  him.  I  love  him  so.  ...  I  don't 
know  why." 


X 

WICKFORD 

THINGS  were  in  this  condition — when  Lise  came 
home. 

"Hard  luck,  Nesta!"  said  Rick,  when  the  news 
reached  his  wife.  Rick,  occupied  with  articles,  did 
not  trouble  much,  as  a  rule,  to  enter  into  the  bud- 
ding romances  of  his  district,  but  he  knew  when 
Nesta  was  contented,  as  he  knew  when  she  was  both- 
ered, and  he  guessed  this  thunderclap  might  lay  low 
her  hopes. 

The  Duchess  brought  the  news.  Harassed  by 
Oxboroughs,  who  would  not  go,  the  Duchess  was 
very  downright  on  the  subject, — her  expressions 
hurt  Ernestine,  who  upheld  that  Lise  had  done  no 
wrong.  Lise  had  been  too  devoted,  if  anything,  try- 
ing to  follow  Mark  into  unfit  regions  whither  his 
work  conveyed  him,  instead  of  staying  where  put 
upon  the  healthful  heights.  And  so,  of  course,  her 
health  broke  down :  and  Mark,  much  worried,  seized 
command  and  sent  her  back  to  England.  Lise,  who 

160 


WICKFORD  161 

was  miserable  at  leaving  Mark, — but  simply  loved 
to  be  commanded, — came:  stipulating  a  short  visit 
only  before  she  returned  to  him  and  her  duties. 

Such  behaviour,  by  all  the  rights  of  things,  should 
satisfy  Gertrude,  who  idealised  Mark:  but  Gertrude 
was  not  so  easily  satisfied,  in  the  circumstances. 
She  said,  Mark's  wife  or  no,  she  wouldn't  have  the 
girl,  nothing  would  induce  her.  Nor,  she  implied, 
would  Ernestine  have  Lise,  if  she  had  any  regard  for 
friendship,  far-sightedness,  or  general  good  feeling. 

Ernestine  differed  here.  She  differed  essentially 
with  Gertrude,  though  she  found,  at  short  notice,  the 
difference  hard  to  explain.  First  and  foremost, 
Lise,  if  in  England,  must  come  to  Holmer.  There 
was  no  escaping  it,  possibly, — that  at  least  her 
friend  should  see.  The  Duchess  was  Captain 
Mark's  godmother,  relation,  and  especial  patroness. 
The  district  was  Lise's  former  home.  The  family 
Fitzmaurice,  it  was  true,  had  moved  to  Richmond 
after  the  girl's  marriage,  but  that  made  no  differ- 
ence,— all  her  old  friends  were  here. 

Well  then,  so  far  clear:  the  delicate,  dangerous 
Lise  must  come.  The  next  point  was  harder  to 
evolve.  It  was  better  she  should  come,  better  for 
everybody,  and,  in  a  way,  for  Iveagh.  Lise  at 
Richmond,  to  Tveagh,  was  questionably  more  dan- 


162  HATCHWAYS 

gerous  than  Lise  in  India,  and  certainly  more  dan- 
gerous than  Lise  at  arm's  length.  It  was  not  pos- 
sible for  Ernestine  to  explain  to  Iveagh's  mother 
how  she  knew  this,  the  Duchess  was  so  little  aware 
of  her  son's  construction.  There  was  no  question 
of  forgetting,  for  Iveagh.  That  often-stated  ad- 
vantage of  Lise  at  a  distance  did  not  exist,  His 
hunger  for  her, — wearing,  aching  hunger, — wher- 
ever it  was  placed,  between  body  and  soul,  between 
heart  and  imagination,  was  not  to  be  reduced  by 
losing  sight  of  her.  Surely  Gertrude  might  guess 
he  was  not  that  sort  of  boy !  To  have  her  in  Eng- 
land, and  just  beyond  reach,  as  her  parents'  present 
home  would  be,  was  the  surest  way  of  maddening 
her  attraction,  of  inflaming  him,  body  and  soul, 
anew.  To  have  her  here,  quite  suddenly,  quite 
simply,  under  his  eyes  at  Hatchways,  Lise  as  the 
wife  of  Mark,  devoted  to  Mark,  dreaming  of  Mark, 
— it  would  be  poignant,  of  course,  but  less  perilous, 
— if  only  Gertrude  would  see ! 

Gertrude  did  not, — ever.  When  Ernestine  wrote 
to  Richmond  to  invite  Mrs.  Elphinstone,  in  the  last 
week  of  March,  to  Hatchways,  the  Duchess,  by  her 
change  of  manner,  very  nearly  threw  her  off.  It 
was  so  simple,  in  the  circumstances,  the  Duchess 
thought,  to  be  rude  to  Lise, — brutal  to  her,  as  a  pos- 


WICKFORD  163 

sible  scandal  to  a  Suir, — Ernestine  did  not  think  so. 
Lise,  in  herself,  was  not  a  scandal:  she  was  mis- 
chievous at  worst,  barely  more  than  became  so  ex- 
quisitely pretty  a  girl.  Lise  was  delicate — Mark 
wanted  her  cared  for — that  finished  it.  All  sick 
and  weary  people,  who  had  ever  been  friendly  there, 
came  to  Hatchways  to  recuperate.  And  Lise  had 
been  friendly, — sweet  very  often  to  Ernestine.  A 
wild  thing  of  nineteen,  half  the  district  sighing  after 
her, — of  course  Ernestine  had  taken  charge.  Why, 
she  had  even  cried  to  her  her  first  confession  of  love 
for  Mark.  .  .  .  Was  that  not  a  bond,  and  lasting? 

"No,"  said  the  Duchess. 

So  the  strain  on  the  former  friendship  grew  very 
marked.  It  waxed  daily.  It  emerged,  unadorned, 
in  the  Duchess's  letters  to  such  Oxboroughs  as  were 
distant,  and  those  Oxboroughs  smiled.  Gertrude 
"s'emballait,"  they  implied,  so  heedlessly,  and  cast 
off  with  a  like  ease.  Isabel,  Oliver,  and  Giles,  still 
on  the  premises,  took  in  the  facts  beneath  their  eyes 
by  degrees,  and  made  remarks  on  them.  The  chief 
thing  they  observed  was  that  it  spoiled  Gertrude's 
temper,  and  made  her  say  things  to  them  which  (as 
the  prettiest  and  mildest  of  the  Oxboroughs)  they 
did  not  expect  her  to  say. 

"Gertrude  seems  to  be  rubbed  up,"  said  Giles  to 


164.  HATCHWAYS 

Oliver  after  a  week  of  it.  But  they  did  not  take 
the  best  way  to  relieve  their  nephew  and  remedy 
matters, — which  was  to  go.  It  happened  that 
Wickford's  stable,  filled  with  Iveagh's  bargains, 
suited  these  Oxboroughs:  so  they  stayed,  and  used 
it. 

Wickford  took  the  news  of  the  reappearance  of 
Lise  in  silence.  He  found  nothing  to  say  when  his 
mother  told  him  the  fact,  wreathed  in  commentary 
concerning  Ernestine's  obstinacy  and  strange  lack  of 
taste.  The  Duke  was  dealing  with  his  uncles  at 
the  time  single-handed — not  that  he  had  not  really 
had  to  do  so  throughout — for  Iveagh  was  away. 
Right  off  the  scene,  not  merely  lurking.  Du  Fret- 
tay  had  been  summoned,  or  summoned  himself,  to 
an  aviation  meeting;  and  Iveagh  went  with  him, 
varying  the  programme  in  du  Frettay's  interest  by 
"lookin'  in"  on  Marchant  at  Oxford,  and  getting 
him  to  disclose  some  of  the  "shows"  of  that  beloved 
retreat.  Wickford  let  his  brother  go  without  a 
warning,  for  he  had,  unlike  his  mother,  a  complete 
confidence  in  the  Frenchman's  good  breeding  and 
good  sense.  It  was  enough  for  Wickford  that  du 
Frettay  was  staying  with  Mrs.  Redgate,  even  had 
not  Sir  George's  high  opinion  of  his  origins  backed 
her  up.  Origins,  to  a  Suir,  meant  much, — meant 


WICKFORD  165 

all,  in  short.  Origins,  to  an  Oxborough,  meant  the 
impossibility  of  doing  certain  things,  all  of  which 
Suirs  did  constantly:  and  the  advisability  of  doing 
others,  which  Suirs  as  often  as  not  left  out.  Per- 
haps the  ideas  of  the  race  du  Frettay  did  not  tally 
with  the  ideas  of  racial  Suir  completely:  but  they 
were  far  nearer  than  Oxborough  and  anything 
French  could  ever  be. 

"I  feel  as  if  I  ought  to  apologise,  Wick,"  said 
Ernestine,  when  at  last  he  got  away  alone  to  Hatch- 
ways to  see  her  about  it. 

"Oh,  you  needn't  fag,"  said  Wickford.  "If 
you'd  not  taken  the  girl,  I  should  have  had  to,  o* 
course,  and  then — "  he  flung  himself  down,  with 
excessive  nonchalance,  into  a  seat  half- turned  from 
her— "there  we'd  be!" 

"I  hadn't  thought  of  that,"  admitted  Ernestine. 
Unseen  behind  him,  her  look  melted.  Wick's  rare 
"I"  was  as  stately  as  it  was  simple.  No  artificial 
dignities  his  mother  lent  him  really  equalled  his 
own,  had  she  ever  allowed  him  to  assume  it.  Just 
once  or  twice,  when  the  Duchess  omitted  to  worry 
him  in  public,  or  when  he  forgot  her  ever-impending 
presence,  she  had  noticed  that  manner  of  his  descend, 
surprised. 

"No,  you  never  think  o'  me  striking,  do  you1?" 


166  HATCHWAYS 

said  Wickford,  flicking  the  dust  off  his  boot  with 
his  whip  as  he  gazed  downward.  "Only  him." 

"Gently,"  said  Ernestine's  manner,  as  it  said  to 
the  Suirs,  not  infrequently. 

"Beastly  sorry,  Mrs.  Redgate,"  said  Wickford, 
— the  other  side  of  him.  He  turned  his  eyes,  and 
about  half  himself,  in  her  direction.  "It's  jolly 
good  of  you  to  do  this,  really, — it's  our  job,  by 
rights.  She'll  be  better  here,  of  course, — poor  little 
girl.  No  harm  in  her,  beyond  that, — never  was." 
Another  pause,  then  a  painful  breath.  "Suppose 
I've  got  to  tell  him, — Mother  won't." 

"I  will,  if  it  bothers  you,"  said  Ernestine  in  the 
next  pause.  Wickford' s  face  had  grown  blank,  as 
it  always  did  when  he  faced  a  delicate  business. 
His  thoughts  grew  blank,  very  often,  simultan- 
eously. 

"I  expect  I'd  best,"  he  replied,  gazing  in  front  of 
him,  dragging  at  his  lip  in  painful  abstraction, — 
both  brothers  shaved  clean. 

"Why?  Why,  Wickford?  Don't  you  trust 
him  to  behave?" 

"Not  I,"  said  the  little  Duke.  "No  chance  of  it, 
— now." 

"Like  touching  dynamite,  do  you  think?" 


WICKFORD  167 

After  a  dubious  glance  in  her  direction — "You 
don't  know  what  it  is,"  growled  Wickford. 

In  the  next  interval,  he  realised  by  degrees  what 
he  had  said,  and  woke  right  out  of  his  trance,  blush- 
ing scarlet.  "Mrs.  Redgate,  I'm  sorry,"  he  stam- 
mered, drawing  in  his  feet.  "I  never  meant " 

She  broke  into  laughter,  holding  out  her  hand. 
"Do  you  know  what  it  is?"  she  asked  him. 

"Shouldn't  wonder,"  said  Wickford,  after  some 
time.  A  false  step  of  that  sort  threw  him  out  in 
dialogue  dreadfully.  "Needn't  think  I'm  a  saint, 
anyhow,"  he  contended. 

"I  don't, — Bess  doesn't  either." 

"Bess?"     His  eyes  reached  hers. 

"She  told  Rick  once  that  she  thought  neither  of 
you  would  die  young  of  saintliness." 

"She  did?  Well,  I'm  obliged  to  her.  I  only 
wish  some  others  had  her  sense." 

"You  are  not  in  love  with  her,  at  least,"  reflected 
Ernestine.  "You  are  making  that  pretty  clear.  I 
wonder — if  it  should  be  only — it  would  be  like 
you." 

"You  don't  want  to  go  to  heaven  before  Iveagh," 
she  suggested,  looking  up  at  him  as  he  rose  to  take 
leave. 


168  HATCHWAYS 

"Not  likely,"  said  the  Duke.     "Goo'-bye." 

"Good-bye.  Your  uncle  and  Adelaide,  is  it?" — 
for  the  usual  clipped  echo  of  the  horse-hoofs  had 
come  to  her  ears. 

He  nodded,  watching  across  her  the  horses'  heads 
pass  along  the  lane. 

"Rotten  position  for  a  man,"  he  spluttered  sud- 
denly, "if  Mother  knew,  setting  me  up  to  talk  to 
him!  Fairly  amazin'  she  doesn't  grasp  it,  con- 
sidering— but  there's  no  letting  a  woman  know! 
You  needn't  laugh.  Why,  look  here,  when  the  kid 
gets  onto  Lise,  it's  all  I  can  do  not  to  be  jealous. 
.  .  .  You'd  not  understand.  It's  rippin'  to  see  him 
go  off — er — decent  or  no.  Not  likely  I'd  tell 
Mother  that,  though, — wouldn't  suit  her,  all  my 
ideas.  She  doesn't  follow  common  little  cattle  like 
Iveagh  and  me.  I  rag  him,  since  I  must, — then  I 
translate  it,  and  tell  her, — but  I  feel  a  fool,  o' 
course.  Why,  if  I  could  love  a  girl  like  that, — a 

real  girl, — not  a  common  charmer "  He  drew 

in  again  perforce,  and  just  in  time. 

"You  will  some  day,"  said  Ernestine. 

"Please  God,"  said  the  Duke  profanely. 
"Doesn't  look  like  it.  There  are  the  nags.  .  .  . 
Look  here,  now — "  He  returned  to  his  duty,  sud- 
denly. "I'd  better  write  to  the  boy,  strikes  me. 


WICKFORD  169 

Then  he  could  work  some  of  it  off  on  du  Frettay, — 
he's  a  safe  man." 

"Do  you  think  so?' 

"Oh  yes,  he's  all  right, — bother  Aunt  Isabel. 
It's  like  this, — what  do  you  want  me  to  tell  him, 
exactly?  How  much  of  it?" 

"All  the  facts,  hadn't  you  better?  He  probably 
doesn't  know  them." 

"Not  he.  Mother  hides  Elphinstone's  letters  like 
the  plague.  As  to  her,"  said  Wickford,  "sometimes 
I  thought  the  kid  wanted  to  know.  I  don't  see  why 
he  shouldn't,  bein'  interested.  But  Mother  never 
sees  things  as  I  do.  She  writes  such  beastly  good 
letters,  Lise!  So  does  Mark,  of  course,  but " 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Ernestine.  She  recollected 
anew  Bess's  parallel  from  Victorian  fiction,  Philip 
and  Guy.  Mark's  perfections,  owing  to  the  Duch- 
ess's care,  weighed  more  heavily  on  Wickford  than 
Iveagh. 

"I'm  afraid  I've  shown  him  a  letter  of  Lise's  be- 
fore now,"  she  said. 

"Have  you,"  said  Wickford,  his  face  clearing. 
"Well,  I'd  sooner  that, — natural  somehow, — no 
point  in  treatin'  a  man  like  a  girl.  I  say,  then 
you  think  I  needn't  cut  this  business, — leave  things 
out?" 


170  HATCHWAYS 

"No.     I  should  tell  him  she's  ill,  and  why " 

"  'Cause  she's  too  fond  of  Mark,  you  mean."  He 
sent  her  a  quaint  look  round  the  corner,  having  sub- 
sided anew,  hand  in  pocket,  on  the  arm  of  a  chair 
rather  nearer  the  door. 

"Yes.  But  I'm  afraid,"  confided  Ernestine, 
"Captain  Elphinstone  did  not  at  all  want  her  with 
him,  this  last  time." 

"I  see.  Lise  on  duty — Lord,  can't  you  hear  'em 
at  it !  .  .  .  Oh,  well,  I'll  disguise  Mark's  unwilling- 
ness. After  all,  it  would  have  been  for  her  good." 
He  glinted  again. 

"Don't  you  believe  in  Mark's  fondness  for  Lise?" 
asked  Ernestine. 

"Oh  yes,"  said  the  Duke,  rather  hastily.  "He's 
as  fond  of  her  as  his  sort  ever  is.  Don't  imagine  I 
mean  anything  different.  As  for  her,  there's  no 
doubt  of  it,  luckily.  She  thought  worlds  of  him, 
when  she  left." 

"Worlds,"  assented  Ernestine. 

"And  if  it's  come  down  a  little " 

"Go  away  and  ride.  Wick,"  said  Ernestine. 
"You're  jealous." 

"I'm  jealous  of  any  man  on  earth  who  marries  a 
pretty  girl,"  explained  Wickford.  "All  of  'em. 
I've  no  down  on  Elphinstone,  specially." 


WICKFORD  171 

"Haven't  you,  indeed!"  She  added  sugges- 
tively— "I've  things  to  do." 

"But  look  here,"  said  Wickford,  catching  her  arm 
as  she  tried  to  pass  him.  "I  got  hold  of  a  letter  of 
hers, — don't  say  it  wasn't  a  jolly  nice  one, — in 
which  she  said " 

"Never  mind.  I  should  hope  Lise  may  laugh  at 
her  husband.  She  wouldn't  be  Lise  if  she  did  not." 

"No,  that's  it,"  said  the  Duke.  "She  said — an' 
speaking  of  Iveagh  too " 

"Please  go,  Wickford.  Adelaide  and  Sir  Giles 
are  waiting." 

"I'll  tell  you  another  time,"  he  declared,  rising  at 
ease  from  his  low  seat.  "As  for  the  way  she  sends 
her  love  to  all  of  us,  at  the  tail  of  Addy's  letters, 
it's  enough  to "  The  whole  of  Wickford  con- 
tracted in  silent  mirth,  and  with  a  widespread  ges- 
ture of  his  whip,  far  from  ungraceful,  he  finally  left 
the  room. 

"You're  anything  but  a  dull  boy,  really,"  re- 
flected Mrs.  Redgate,  as  she  went  on  to  the  next 
thing.  "I  wonder  Rick  can't  see  it.  ...  Mark 
indeed!" 

The  foregoing  dialogue  contained  the  first  hint 
Ernestine  or  anybody  had  that  Wickford, — who  al- 


172  HATCHWAYS 

ways  knew  his  own  mind  so  much  better  than  other 
people  knew  it  for  him, — was  courting  Miss  Rye- 
born  in  his  late  sedulous  and  serious  fashion,  solely 
in  his  brother's  interest. 

Even  Ernestine  found  it  hard  to  believe  at  first. 
It  was,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  an  out-of-the-way  pro- 
ceeding. For  another  thing,  Ernestine  had  really 
accustomed  herself,  by  now,  to  the  other  or  first  im- 
pression, which  had  been  Gertrude's  too.  Yet 
clearly,  it  was  not  an  impossible  course,  granted  that 
kind  of  genius  of  good  sense  Wickford  had,  in  which 
she  shared  and  sympathised.  His  mother,  all  his 
circle,  were  persistently  on  the  edge  of  rudeness  to 
Bess,  enough  to  frighten  her.  They  displayed  their 
feelings  frankly  enough  to  make  her  shrink  away, 
drive  her  into  those  artistic  fastnesses,  that  life  of 
silence,  into  which  she  was  already  too  willing  to 
retreat.  Iveagh  the  unaccountable  attached  her 
rarely,  though  he  constantly  hovered  near.  To  en- 
gage Miss  Ryeborn's  attention,  as  it  were,  in 
Iveagh's  interest,  until  that  young  gentleman  should 
choose  to  see  her  eminent  advantages,  was — well, 
very  like  Wickford.  It  was  like  him  too,  once 
launched  on  so  practical  a  course  (to  Suir  ideas)  not 
to  observe  that  he  was  defeating  his  own  ends  by 
daily  increasing  his  family's  enmity  to  Bess. 


WICKFORD  173 

After  the  news  of  Lise's  coming,  Wickford  met 
Bess  more  carefully  yet, — compassionately, — no 
doubt  as  an  attempt  to  apologise.  Not  that  Bess 
knew,  of  course,  of  Iveagh's  devotion  to  the  distant 
elf,  and  the  concern  it  had  occasioned  to  Iveagh's 
friends:  that  had  never  really  spread  beyond  the 
immediate  Holmer  circle.  Of  these  friends,  the 
Redgates,  Sir  George,  and  Adelaide,  alone  knew  the 
truth,  and  even  for  some  of  them,  as  we  have  seen, 
the  truth  was  tempered.  Sam  Coverack  had  mis- 
doubted it  only  at  moments,  and  he  had  been  one 
of  the  people  most  frequently  in  Iveagh's  company. 
The  Lise  interlude  about  which  Sam  jested  publicly, 
with  which  he  made  most  play  when  he  wished  to 
exhibit  the  girl  she  had  been,  was  the  agreeable  lit- 
tle diversion  with  Adelaide  concerning  the  Duke. 
In  the  amusement  of  watching  that — we  fear,  bet- 
ting upon  it — Sam  had  forgotten  the  chance  of 
Iveagh  altogether.  Iveagh,  melting  into  the  scen- 
ery at  will,  was  at  all  times  easily  overlooked. 

Adelaide,  of  course,  might  have  betrayed  the 
secret  of  his  unhappy  passion  to  Bess,  as  she  had 
practically  done  to  Gabriel :  but  she  did  not  care  to. 
There  was  no  clear  point  to  be  scored  by  it,  and  she 
had  in  these  days  to  make  every  point  she  was  worth 
in  Miss  Ryeborn's  company.  From  day  to  day, 


174  HATCHWAYS 

Adelaide  grew  more  anxious,  more  angry.  Never, 
— anyhow  in  her  sight, — had  Wick  shown  atten- 
tions of  that  sort  to  a  girl  before.  His  attentions 
to  Lise  had  been  mere  pastime,  compared  with  it. 
He  could  not — could  not  be  serious!  A  girl  from 
nowhere,  a  middle-class  girl,  with  no  connections, 
barely  a  penny  to  her  name!  .  .  .  And  yet,  Wick- 
ford  was  serious. 

Adelaide  strove  angrily.  She  shook  out  her  feath- 
ers to  the  world.  A  girl  of  her  make,  with  all  the 
money  she  wants  to  back  her,  can  do  much  when 
she  tries.  Wickford,  bearing  her  various  humours 
whenever  they  met,  and  watching  her  peacock  tail- 
spreading  in  toilette,  and  sweep,  and  style,  began  to 
realise  perforce  the  little  misunderstanding  to  which 
his  assiduity  at  Miss  Ryeborn's  elbow  laid  him  open. 

We  regret  to  say  that  Wickford,  when  he  did  so 
realise  it,  was,  in  the  first  place,  exquisitely  amused. 
The  thing  that  amused  him  most — apart  from  the 
ordinary  amusement  to  which  eligible  man  is  prone 
— was  that  all  these  nice  people  who  knew  him  best 
imagined  he  would  do  such  a  thing.  .  .  .  Even 
Mrs.  Redgate! 

Not  but  what  Miss  Bess  would  make  a  pretty 
Duchess,  Wickford  allowed,  so  far  as  looks  and 
bearing  went.  She  was  an  absolutely  ripping  girl, 


WICKFORD  175 

good  as  they  make  them,  sweet  to  consult,  supple  to 
manage,  and  uncommon  clever  with  her  pencil  "into 
the  show."  But — shade  of  his  father! — did  they 
imagine  for  an  instant  that  would  do  for  him? 
Had  they  a  notion  of  the  house  his  fortunes  required 
him  to  build,  or  to  rebuild?  His  mother  should 
have  a  better  idea  of  him,  at  least.  Mrs.  Redgate, 
for  once,  might  be  allowed  scarcely  to  know  about  it. 

Wickford's  ideas,  in  short,  would  vastly  have  sur- 
prised Adelaide,  and  his  mother,  and  Sam,  and 
everybody  who  regarded  him  as  homely  and  simple 
and  sentimental,  and  wanting  in  sufficiency  and 
self-regard.  But  he  did  not  let  Adelaide  know 
them.  That  was  a  little  beyond  the  strength  of 
eligible — or  Irish — man  to  attain. 

He  let  Adelaide  peacock  it,  setting  herself  off 
against  the  other  girl  as  women  do,  and  watched  her 
thoughtfully.  He  had  still,  for  all  his  mother's 
teasing,  not  actually  set  her  aside.  She  was  almost 
everything  he  wanted,  as  a  fact,  except  lovable. 
And  even  so,  Wickford  was  sorry  for  her  at  times. 
She  had  a  wretched  life  of  it,  as  he  knew  from  Mrs. 
Redgate,  amid  her  home  dissensions.  Her  father, 
in  his  worst  moods,  was  a  beast.  Her  mother, 
friend  of  a  Princess,  would  very  likely  get  a  perma- 
nent post  at  Court.  Her  parents'  generous  inten- 


176  HATCHWAYS 

tions  regarding  her  were  unquestionable, — "pots" 
of  money, — every  eye  of  her  peacock  train  was 
touched  with  gold. 

And  she  was  a  handsome  girl,  and  she  cared  for 
him — possibly.  She  was  giving  him  daily  reason 
to  suppose  she  did. 

Alas,  had  any  kind  spirit  been  at  hand  to  whisper 
to  Adelaide  how  golden  her  chance  was  with  the 
Duke,  just  these  very  days  of  Iveagh's  absence  when 
she  thought  it  least,  before,  in  a  fit  of  common  jeal- 
ousy, spite  and  heedlessness,  she  flung  it  away ! 

What  had  not  struck  Wickford  in  the  course  of 
his  various  debating  was  that  Adelaide  in  her  pres- 
ent princess,  peacock  mood,  would  "wipe  his  eye"  in 
the  matter  of  Lise,  by  informing  Iveagh.  That  this 
was  a  possible  "score"  for  a  sporting  young  lady 
had  not  occurred  to  him,  since  really  he  could  not 
follow  the  bearing  of  all  her  scores.  Adelaide  had 
long  known  she  could  "draw"  Wick  by  teasing 
Iveagh,  especially  on  the  subject  of  Lise.  It  was 
an  advantage  she  used  in  private,  not  infrequently. 
Baiting  Iveagh  because  Wickford  advised  her  not, 
was  quite  a  natural  diversion,  as  was  any  other 
method  of  pricking  Wickford  to  talk  to  her,  quarrel 
with  her,  or  show  his  hand.  The  Suirs  had  a  canny 
little  way  of  concealing  their  hands,  for  all  their 


WICKFORD  177 

easy-going  friendliness,  that  was  maddening  to  a 
girl  like  Adelaide.  Now,  when  this  excellent 
chance  of  baiting  Iveagh,  driving  him  off  his  head 
for  the  public  amusement,  fell  to  her  own  hand 
through  the  Duchess's  indiscretion,  she  used  it  with- 
out delay. 


XI 
CAPTURE  OF  GABRIEL 

GABRIEL  and  Iveagh  had  a  nice  time.  They  did 
not  stop  at  Oxford,  though  they  let  Marchant  know 
they  were  staying  with  him,  for  his  soul's  good. 
They  saw  over  a  great  library,  and  a  historic  Hall, 
and  a  very  particular  Press,  and  a  few  other  im- 
proving things,  in  his  society:  then  they  branched 
out  a  little,  and  saw  a  public  school,  and  a  man-of- 
war,  and  the  House  of  Lords,  in  the  company  of 
some  people  Iveagh  annexed  in  London;  and  a 
motor-works,  and  a  cricket  match,  and  a  stable  at 
Epsom,  all  on  their  own.  They  did  the  aviation 
meeting,  du  Frettay  in  his  rights  and  glory,  and 
Iveagh  incognito  and  inquisitive.  They  went  to  a 
concert  called  Irish  at  Regent's  Hall,  and  immedi- 
ately after  to  the  circus  with  the  performing  tigers 
at  Reading,  in  order  to  take  the  taste  of  the  concert 
out  of  their  mouths.  It  so  happened  the  prima- 
donna  had  given  one  of  Lise's  songs,  though  du 
Frettay  could  not  know  that.  However,  taking 

178 


CAPTURE    OF    GABRIEL  179 

Iveagh's  word  for  it  that  nothing  was  right  with  the 
lady  in  toilette,  taste,  mind  or  morals,  he  followed 
him  on  to  the  tigers  willingly,  and  instantly  had  his 
reward  in  a  fine  specimen  of  ancient  Saxon  humour 
presented  by  the  circus  clown. 

They  also  saw  some  quite  magnificent  riding  on 
the  part  of  two  "Mexican"  girls,  who,  when  cross- 
examined  by  Iveagh  in  the  coulisses,  turned  out  to 
come  from  Cork.  So,  in  short,  Lise  and  her  song 
were  indirectly  avenged:  and  Iveagh  and  Gabriel 
went  back  co  the  austere  delights  of  a  Sunday  at 
Oxford,  temporarily  satisfied  and  relieved  in  mind. 

By  the  way,  and  imperceptibly  to  both  of  them, 
they  laid  the  foundations  of  the  kind  of  friendship 
that  stays.  They  dovetailed,  Iveagh  and  Gabriel, 
if  they  did  not  coincide.  Their  humour  matched — 
and  that  is  such  an  immense  thing — almost  to  a 
shade.  There  was  eight  years  difference  in  age :  but 
then  Iveagh,  with  his  inheritance  and  experience, 
was  aged  or  possibly  ageless.  He  had  never  had 
the  fledgeling  simplicity  of  the  Saxon.  His  out- 
look on  the  world  was  seasoned  by  centuries  of  grief, 
and  strife,  and  wron|.  This — what  we  compla- 
cently name  the  Celtic  melancholy — made  him  and 
du  Frettay  practically  equals  in  experience.  None 
of  the  blacker  evils  of  the  world  surprised  him:  none 


180  HATCHWAYS 

of  the  sweeter  more  evanescent  delicacies  of  the 
world  escaped  his  subtle  sense.  On  this  latter  side 
Gabriel  could  actually  learn;  and,  armed  with  his 
own  incisive  and  individualist  Gallic  wits,  he  ex- 
plored his  store  of  observation  curiously. 

Still  unaware  to  himself,  calling  him  most  of  the 
time  a  dull  boy,  Gabriel  delighted  in  his  company, 
his  side-long  sudden  glances,  quaint  angles  of  view, 
and  the  strict  sane  sense  of  his  remarks.  There  is 
no  good  sense  like  it,  really, — the  practical  Germanic 
gets  nowhere  near.  A  sense  that  takes  in  half  a 
dozen  points  of  view,  as  it  must  in  any  race  with  the 
real  dramatic  gift,  is  surely  so  much  more  valuable 
than  a  sense  which  takes  in  one!  It  is  also  instan- 
taneously adaptable.  Gabriel  tried  to  picture 
Iveagh  in  France,  in  his  own  delicately-arrogant, 
though  simple-seeming  surroundings:  and  saw  at 
once  he  would  do  there,  as  easily  as  among  Sam  and 
the  rustic  hawbucks,  or  among  Ernestine,  Bess  and 
the  cats.  .  .  .  Then  he  reflected  on  aristocracy, 
genuine  aristocracy,  and  thought  of  those  circus 
girls'  "Yes,  m'lord," — "No,  m'lord," — while  brogue 
was  exchanging  fast  amid  the  sawdust  and  gas. 
They  had  heard  his  name,  doubtless:  but  the  man- 
ner was  clear, — very  clear  for  such  girls  as  those. 
A  world  of  aristocracy  cleaves  the  high  race  from 


CAPTURE    OF    GABRIEL  181 

the  low  race,  even  in  Ireland.  Even  in  Ireland! 
He  noted  a  few  remarks  on  that. 

So,  finally,  they  said  farewell  to  Marchant,  and 
du  Frettay  said  all  the  correct  things,  which  Iveagh 
omitted,  and  Iveagh  promised,  if  he  could  dodge 
Miss  Ryeborn  anyhow,  to  shoot  a  few  more  rabbits, 
and  Marchant  sent  his  love  (or  something  he  cer- 
tainly meant  for  it)  to  Mrs.  Redgate,  and  they  went 
back  to  Holmer  Hatch  by  the  usual  train. 

And  then,  without  a  warning,  it  happened !  The 
overcharged  cloud  broke  in  Gabriel's  presence. 

"Iveagh,  my  dear !"  said  Ernestine. 

She  and  Bess  were  sewing  peacefully  in  her  own 
particular  little  bower  in  the  Hatchways  garden, — 
really  hers,  reserved  to  the  household, — when  he 
burst  through  the  leaves. 

He  was  heated,  and  white,  ajid  staggering, — 
scarcely  able  to  stand,  for  he  caught  at  the  pergola- 
pole.  The  idea  that  he  was  drunk  took  possession 
of  her  immediately.  How  could  Ernestine  avoid 
it4? — knowing  that  deadly  temptation  of  the  modern 
world,  latter-day  Lethe,  so  easy  to  his  hand,  who 
needed  to  forget.  He  had  looked  that  way  more 
than  once,  she  knew,  since  the  moment  of  his  first 
despair.  All  his  brother's  warnings  had  not  with- 


182  HATCHWAYS 

held  him  once  or  twice,  say  in  experiment,  from 
crossing  the  line. 

"Don't  go, — don't  let  her  go," — stammered 
Iveagh.  For  Bess,  to  whom  her  aunt's  anxiety  and 
horror  communicated  itself  almost  before  utterance, 
had  arisen,  pale  as  he  was,  laying  aside  her  work 
mechanically. 

"You  wish  Bess  to  stay?" 

It  was  a  test,  that  question:  and  she  moved  be- 
tween them,  markedly.  Bess  looked  at  both  wide- 
eyed,  wondering,  gathering,  hardly  able  to  doubt, 
such  was  the  stern  ring  of  her  tone. 

"She  needn't  bother,  it's  all  right,"  he  said  un- 
steadily. "It's  only  I  had  to — could  I  sit  down?" 

Bess's  eyes  met  her  aunt's,  as  he  took  the  deck- 
chair  she  advanced  without  apology,  and  leaning 
forward,  dropped  his  head  in  his  hands.  Wise  in 
the  many  chances  of  a  hunting  community,  they  had 
another  idea,  and  again,  almost  simultaneously. 

"You  did  not  fall  off  your  horse?"  said  Mrs. 
Redgate,  coming  behind  him,  and  taking  his  head  in 
her  hands.  All  the  same  she  could  barr'y  credit  it, 
— Iveagh  and  whatever  horse  were  so  little  apt  to 
part  company.  Yet  she  could,  for  the  moment, 
think  of  nothing  else. 

"Horse?     I    hadn't    got    one.     They    had    the 


CAPTURE    OF    GABRIEL  183 

horses, — four  of  'em.  We'd  just  come  from  town. 
No, — the  other  place,  wasn't  it?  I  forget." 

Forget!  Yes,  these  were  the  symptoms  of  con- 
cussion rather  than  intemperance,  decidedly.  No 
doubt  he  was  hurt,  her  boy.  At  once  her  friendly 
arms  slipped  across  his  shoulders,  clasped  the  wrists 
of  his  hands,  apologising,  of  course,  for  her  suspi- 
cions. "Don't  try  to  remember "  she  was  be- 
ginning in  the  right  nurse's  tone,  which  is  far  from 
gentle,  when  he  broke  in. 

"But  I  must — it  was  Addy — I  wasn't  dreamin', 
can't  have  been.  It  was  at  the  station, — just  out- 
side it.  I  came  on  to  ask  you.  Addy  said " 

Then  she  saw  it,  of  course.  Conviction  flashed, 
and  action  simultaneously.  Wickford's  careful  let- 
ter had  gone  astray.  Adelaide's,  of  all  unfriendly, 
hostile  hands  had  shot  the  bolt.  Before  an  audi- 
ence,— uncles, — she  had  seen  the  party  start.  Still 
holding  him,  she  turned. 

"Go  to  the  house,  Bess,  dear,"  she  directed. 
"No,  nothing, — send  nothing.  He  will  be  all 
right." 

She  knew  though  as  she  spoke  that  she  must  tell 
Bess  everything.  Already  she  had  debated  it,  but 
there  was  no  escaping  it  now.  The  boy  under  her 
hands  was  sobbing  almost,  in  deadly  emotion,  just 


184  HATCHWAYS 

as  he  had  been  at  the  very  worst.  And  why1? — 
clear  as  daylight,  to  anyone  knowing  Adelaide. 
She,  Lise's  rival,  have  mercy4?  Why  should  she*? 
Chaffingly,  idly,  with  silly  circumvention  and  sense- 
less enjoyment,  she  had  reopened  the  wound, — in 
public,  that  was  still  the  worst.  The  pair  of  stupid 
military  uncles,  Sam  the  follower,  du  Frettay  the 
foreigner  too.  .  .  .  Adelaide,  to  whom  love,  the 
great  power  that  shakes  and  welds  the  world,  was 
unknown  except  as  a  show,  a  vulgar  entertainment, 
a  freak  of  nature  to  be  played  with,  played  at, 
played  upon  ...  a  girl,  Ernestine  had  sometimes 
thought,  like  innumerable  English  girls,  without  any 
of  the  forms  of  heart.  Not  even  the  friend's, — not 
even  the  old  comrade's, — since  this  was  the  way  she 
treated  Wickford.  Mrs.  Redgate  saw  the  "score" 
very  well,  since  it  matched  other  scores  of  which 
Adelaide  had  boasted  in  her  presence.  But  some- 
how, those  had  never  shocked  her:  now  she  was 
shocked. 

There  was  another  charge  in  her  mind  besides  the 
brutal  ill-taste  of  it, — that  of  cowardice.  She 
grasped  as  nobody  else  did,  certainly  not  the  brother, 
and  doubtfully  du  Frettay,  the  extent  to  which 
Iveagh  was  in  Adelaide's  hands.  Gabriel,  ever 
since  that  first  day  at  the  stations,  had  been  surprised 


CAPTURE    OF    GABRIEL  185 

at  intervals  by  his  submission,  as  much  as  by  the 
carelessness  of  the  girl's  baiting, — she  seemed  to 
know  herself  safe.  So  Adelaide*  was,  only  Gabriel 
missed  the  reason.  Iveagh,  in  the  matter  of  the 
Courtiers,  was  not  in  his  brother's  confidence.  He 
did  not  ask  confidence  from  his  elder  and  head  of 
his  clan  concerning  his  matrimonial  projects:  that 
was  not  the  custom,  could  not  be  done.  Thus, 
placing  Adelaide  in  his  world's  scheme  as  a  probable 
sister-in-law  and  future  Duchess,  the  lordly  central 
Suir  idea  protected  her  perfectly.  She  might,  for 
Iveagh,  already  have  been  Wick's  wife. 

And  Adelaide  knew  it!  She  knew,  from  Ernes- 
tine's hints  and  protests,  even  had  not  her  own 
"sporting"  instinct  spied  her  advantage  out.  Hers 
was  the  sporting  instinct  of  the  ferreter,  not  fair- 
play  big  game,  like  Sir  George.  It  distressed  Mrs. 
Redgate  particularly  when  women,  strong,  young, 
with  all  their  chances,  exhibit  their  primaeval  cow- 
ardice in  this  way.  It  would  have  distressed  and 
disgusted  her,  even  had  not  this  boy,  proud,  passion- 
ate, and  inexpressive,  been  the  other  party  concerned. 

She  swept  in  the  rest  of  the  evidence,  when  Bess 
had  gone,  without  much  trouble,  though  she  hardly 
needed  it. 

"She's  ill?"  Iveagh  asked  at  last,  coming  out  of 


186  HATCHWAYS 

his  hands.  Of  course,  he  had  not  even  the  facts, — 
facts  were  the  last  things  Adelaide  gave. 

"No,  not  to  matter.  Tired,  you  know.  We 
thought  of  getting  her  here  to  rest.  I  won't  though, 
if  it  hurts  you " 

"Why  would  it  hurt  me*?"  he  shot  swiftly.  "It 
was  only  she  said  case, — case  at  Hatchways, — 
Ernestine's  latest, — that's  you.  I  didn't  trouble 
just  then,  I  was  thinkin'  of  Emer,  she  was  ridin' 
her."  (Emer  was  Lise's  mare.)  "She  always 
fetches  out  Emer  when  I'm  away.  I  told  him  last 
time  I  wouldn't  have  it."  (Him  was  Wickford.) 
"He  might  see  to  it,  stand  up  to  her  a  bit  in  the 
stable.  I  can't  be  always  bothered  with  the  girl  she 
is." 

"Go  on,"  said  Ernestine,  as  he  waited  to  gather 
his  thoughts.  He  looked  quite  exhausted,  blue  be- 
neath the  eyes,  as  he  lay  searching  for  sentences, 
catching  the  first  words  that  came.  His  eyes  them- 
selves were  darkened  and  languid  with  the  look  she 
knew, — the  other-world  look  of  Lise — and  though 
shifting  rapidly  about  to  help  his  thoughts,  they 
never  met  hers,  as  he  proceeded.  We  quote  the 
account,  with  a  note  on  the  text  occasionally;  for 
certain  of  Iveagh's  tricks,  such  as  his  liberal  use  of 
the  personal  pronouns  for  individuals  he  affected, 


CAPTURE    OF    GABRIEL  187 

made  him  a  little  hard  to  understand.  Mrs.  Red- 
gate  was  used  to  him,  of  course :  having  been  herself 
one  of  his  principal  "shes"  for  eleven  years  back. 

"So  then  she  said  (Adelaide)  beginnin'  with  an 
E.  And  some  other  ass  said  two  E's, — and  that 
started  them  off.  And  I  didn't  think  of  it — how 
would  I? — didn't  trouble  to,  anyway, — rottin'  the 
lot.  E.F.  she  was  in  her  letters, — E.F.M  was  what 
she  liked.  She's  right  enough  too — that  lot  of  'em 
ought  to  have  it.  ..." 

"Brilliant,  Adelaide,"  thought  Ernestine,  watch- 
ing him.  "Most  amusing,  making  him  guess." 

"You  and  Bess  are  E.R,"  pushed  on  Iveagh. 
"There's  that  Ellis-woman  Mother  has, — and  Lady 
Earraid,  she's  R.E.  Besides,  spellin's  such  a  rotten 
game!  ...  So  I  just  observed  I  was  sick  of  it,  kind 
o'  style  to  stop  the  goat  sniggerin', — (Sam  was  the 
goat) — and  Uncle  Oliver  seemed  amazed  at  me, 
wistful  and  wonderin', — and  the  other  one  was  red- 
dish,— and  he  got  a  hold  on  my  arm.  He  set  out 
to  dodge  her  (du  Frettay,  evidently),  but  no  chance, 
once  the  girl  had  put  the  game  up, — that  game, — 
I  could  have  told  him  there  was  no  chance.  Best 
let  her  drip  and  have  done  with  it,"  said  Iveagh, 
shifting  the  image  competently, — "that's  what  he 
said  to  me,  more  or  less, — but  I  had  to  stop.  .  .  . 


188  HATCHWAYS 

So,  after  some  more  truck,  the  girl  said  she'd  whisper 
it  to  Emer, — whisperin',  I  didn't  like  that.  What's 
she  want  talkin'  to  her, — ridin's  bad  enough.  .  .  . 
So  I  came  on  to  you,"  he  concluded  lamely.  "See 
you  on  the  quiet, — get  some  sense  out " 

"Sense,"  thought  Ernestine,  "and  I  received  you 
as  if  you  were  drunk!"  She  offered  him  the  sense 
that  was  his  right,  immediately. 

"I  have  invited  Lise  to  come  here  soon,"  she  said, 
"Monday  week.  But  she  is  in  England  for  another 
month  or  so, — would  you  rather  we  put  it  off*?" 

"No,  no,"  he  shot  again,  impatient.  "She'd  best 
get  here.  You'd  better  see  to  her, — it  was  not  that 
I  was  meanin'  at  all." 

It  was  a  most  complete  testimonial  to  Mrs.  Red- 
gate's  powers, — far  better  than  'Wickford's,  since 
Iveagh  exacted  the  best  in  earth  and  heaven  for  Lise. 

"She  is  not  ill,"  she  once  more  assured  him  gently. 
"Not  really.  That  was  another  of  Adelaide's 
jokes." 

His  eyes,  out  of  the  falling  dusk,  rested  on  her 
for  a  fraction  of  time.  "Why  has  he  sent  her  off?" 
he  said. 

"Mark"?  Because  she  would  follow  him,  here, 
there,  and  everywhere.  You  know  what  a  rebel  she 
is." 


CAPTURE    OF    GABRIEL  189 

Iveagh  knew  well  enough.  "Funny  to  send  her 
off,"  he  repeated. 

Ernestine  was  driven  to  excuse  Mark.  "He  sent 
her  out  of  harm's  way,  and  home  was  easiest.  He 
wanted  home  air,  for  Lise.  So  I  offered  to  take 
her." 

"Oh  yes,"  he  said.     "Why  didn't  Mother?" 

Wretched  boys  for  questions!     She  was  held  up. 

"Wickford  would  have "  she  started. 

"All  right,"  said  Iveagh.  "You've  all  been 
scrappin'  and  me  out  of  it."  He  yawned  a  little, 
and  considered  it,  resting  his  head  on  his  hand. 

"She's  been  down  on  you?"  he  enquired  casually, 
— meaning  his  mother  this  time. 

"Yes." 

"Raggin'  him?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  so.     I  got  the  ragging." 

"You?" 

In  the  next  silence,  she  had  the  impression, — no 
new  one, — that  he  was  taking  charge.  His  real  self 
in  the  twilight,  attentive  and  gracious,  came  through. 
"Gracious"  was  the  word  Mrs.  Redgate  (who  had 
not  a  large  vocabulary)  invariably  applied,  in  mem- 
ory, to  Iveagh's  father.  It  was  also  the  word,  to 
her  mind,  most  adapted  to  the  underpart  of  him. 
From  the  age  of  twelve  he  had  condescended,  at 


190  HATCHWAYS 

times,  to  take  charge  of  her,  and  it  never  failed  to 
delight  her  when  he  did.  What  his  mother  had 
missed! — thought  Ernestine,  often.  But  then  Ger- 
trude was  the  monumental  type  of  mother, — quite 
marvellous.  She  seemed  to  think  even  sons  like 
Wickf ord  grew  on  every  bush ! 

"It  wasn't  worth  it,"  he  said,  having  thought  it 
out  carefully.  "ScrappinV 

"But  we  did  not  scrap.  Your  mother,"  said  Mrs. 
Redgate,  gravely,  "is  much  too  well-bred." 

"Oh,  go  on,"  returned  Iveagh.  "She  did  most  of 
it.  Can't  see  you  quarrellin',  quite."  He  just 
moved  a  hand,  in  her  direction. 

"Thank  you."  She  took  the  hand.  "Iveagh, 
will  you  stay  to  dinner  with  me*?"  she  ventured. 
She  was  a  little  afraid  of  him  to-night. 

"No,— the  man's  comin'."  (Du  Frettay.)  "I'd 
better  get  up  on  home.  There's  something  I  meant 
to  say,  before  I  did,  though.  Wait  a  sec."  He 
sought  it.  "While  she's  here,  stoppin'  along  with 
you, — Lise " 

"Yes,"  said  Ernestine  submissively.  He  had 
dropped  the  name  with  the  greatest  care  and  deli- 
cacy, just  that  there  should  be  no  mistake. 

"Only,  I'll  not  come  often.  Not  awfully  often. 
I'll  not  play  the  ass,  the  way  his  little  spirit's  dis- 


CAPTURE    OF    GABRIEL  191 

tressed  about  me  in  the  evenin's."  (Wickford,  be- 
yond a  doubt.)  "He  can  be  easy, — you  can  let  him 
know.  I  want  to  be  over  with  this  now,  if  you 
don't  mind, — it's  not  been  so  enticin'  I'd  ask  for 
more  of  it."  He  waited  for  a  time, — the  right  time 
too.  This  was  a  great  occasion,  and  he  was  letting 
her  know  it,  while  he  guarded  her  carelessly.  'Til 
get  things  goin'  to-morrow  or  the  next  day,  once  I 
see  them  straight.  To-night  I  cannot, — that  girl's 
done  me, — I  give  her  credit."  He  shut  his  eyes, 
and  pressed  his  fingers  to  them.  "Only  I'll  stick  it 
out.  I'll — see  you  through.  I'll — take  the  pledge." 
Silence.  She  longed  both  to  thank  and  bless  him, 
but  dared  not,  he  sat  so  still.  This  was  his  offering 
to  her,  not  Lise,  she  knew  it.  He  had  made  it  com- 
pletely clear. 

"You  needn't  think  I  can't  if  I  want,"  he  re- 
sumed, dropping  his  hands.  "That's  how  you  all 
go  wrong.  I  can  do  the  polite  an'  pleasin',"  said 
Iveagh,  casting  about  wearily  for  images,  "as  well 
as  my  brother  in  his  sword  and  stockin's,  when  he 
goes  trucklin'  to  the  English  Court." 

Silence:  Mrs.  Redgate,  a  most  loyal  subject,  still 
submissive.  Nor  did  she  resent  the  image  of  Wick- 
ford,  another  perfectly  loyal  subject,  truckling, — 
Iveagh  had  her  in  hand. 


192  HATCHWAYS 

"I'll  not  go  stravaguin,"  he  pursued,  dropping 
into  deep  melancholy.  "I'll  stop  about.  I'll  exer- 
cise Emer  when  she's  not  wantin'  her, — you  can  tell 
her  that.  Emer's  all  right,  anyhow, — will  be. 
Dare  say  she  didn't  care  for  that  girl  to-day " 

"I  shouldn't  think  her  health  had  suffered,"  said 
Ernestine,  for  his  melancholy  had  grown  fixed. 

"Can't  say,  you  never  know,"  he  returned,  with 
the  utmost  gravity.  "I'll  see  to  her  to-morrow,  not 
to-night."  Pause.  "Sure  she's  not  ill?  Not  any- 
how?" This  was  not  Emer,  but  Lise. 

"Quite  sure."  Ernestine  was  convinced  now  that 
every  chance  of  the  first  three  years  of  matrimony 
had  been  swept  by  his  half -paralysed  thought.  Or 
was  it  only  the  expression  that  was  paralysed? — 
more  probable.  His  thoughts  throughout  the  inter- 
view, shattered  as  he  looked,  had  been  well  in  front 
of  hers. 

"Dash,  how  giddy  I  feel,"  he  remarked  as  he  got 
up.  "Funny  thing.  You  thought  I'd  been  soakin', 
didn't  you?  ...  I  say,  by  the  way," — he  held  her 
simply  by  the  upper  arm  to  steady  himself, — "talkin5 
of  giddy,  those  machines  of  his  are  toppin'.  More 
in  them  than  I  thought." 

"What    machines?"     He    nodded    towards    the 


CAPTURE    OF    GABRIEL  193 

house.  Now,  there  were  only  two  gentlemen,  at 
present,  in  Hatchways  house. 

"Iveagh,  you  didn't  go  up*?"  Ernestine  was 
moved.  "No,  you  are  naughty,  both  of  you !  You 
said  you'd  tell  Wick  or  me  before  you  did." 

"I  forgot,"  said  Iveagh,  with  something  like  his 
ordinary  expression.  "Don't  excite,"  he  added  per- 
suasively. "I  told  the  Press-fellow  there  not  to 
mention  it.  ...  The  noise  is  enough  to  turn  you 
silly,  though.  They'll  have  to  see  to  that.  We 
didn't  go  far.  I  couldn't  'a'  got  killed, — not  badly 
killed, — I  dare  say  I'd  'a'  got  over  it."  He  looked 
her  in  the  eyes,  infinite  tragedy  in  his,  the  tragedy 
of  all  the  ages.  "Mention  that  to  Mother  when 
you  make  it  up  with  her,"  he  said.  "Good  night." 

"It  was  cruel,"  said  du  Frettay  after  dinner,  "and 
stupid  consummately, — oh,  consummately!  And 
especially  do  I  pity  him  that  his  uncles  know.  His 
friend  I  think  will  have  mercy :  that  young  man  has 
some  relics  of  sense." 

"Oh,  Sam  is  no  harm,"  said  Ernestine.  "But  of 
course,  he  admires  Adelaide." 

"I  cannot  think,  when  he  shall  reflect  upon  it,  he 
will  admire  her,"  said  du  Frettay  earnestly.  "It 


194.  HATCHWAYS 

reminded  me  so  strongly  of  something  I  saw  lately 
— at  Reading — the  circus  clown.  It  was  curious, 
indeed,  to  have  the  two  impressions  so  close, — I 
noted  them." 

"Oh,  but  really!"  said  Ernestine,  dimpling. 
"Rick,  speak  up  for  us.  We  can  do  better  than 
that." 

"Go  on,"  encouraged  Rick. 

Rick  was  delighted  to  have  du  Frettay  back.  He 
and  Ernestine  had  had  Oxboroughs  to  all  kinds  of 
meals,  constantly,  during  the  interval,  in  order  to 
relieve  the  Duchess. 

"It  was  of  the  nature,"  said  Gabriel,  settling  in 
his  chair,  "of  what  we  call  the  'farce  d'ecolier,'  but 
that  terminates — comes  to  an  end — as  a  rule,  at 
twelve  years  old.  At  eleven,  we  will  say,  for  jus- 
tice. It  emerges  again  later,  I  do  not  deny  it,  in 
the  ebullience  of  admissibility, — that  is  to  say,  first 
examination  results.  But  even  so, — however  idi- 
otic,— the  inspiration,  the  motive,  is  respectable. 
There  is  one  little  matter  I  remember,  concerned 
with  a  hearse,  and  horses, — the  coffin  absent.  It 
was  brutal,  yes, — yet  well  inspired.  The  motive 
was  a  just  one, — as  it  were,  necessary.  It  made  one 
reflect " 

He  reflected.     Rick,  looking  at  his  blue  eyes  bent 


CAPTURE    OF   GABRIEL  195 

on  his  boyhood's  memories,  wondered  which  of  his 
college  professors  had  gone  down  to  an  early  grave 
in  consequence  of  the  inspired  motive  he  was  dream- 
ing of. 

"But  this,"  resumed  Gabriel  presently,  "had  no 
such  excuse.  None.  It  was  stupid  merely, — 
formidablement  bete.  I  regret  to  be  obliged  to 
my  own  terms.  She  played  with  she  knew  not 
what, — quite  purposeless — "  He  glanced  at  Ernes- 
tine. 

"Quite,"  she  said. 

"Having  no  knowledge  of  the  thing  she  played 
with — "  He  paused  again,  waiting. 

"Go  on,"  said  Rick.  "You'll  get  nothing  out  of 
her." 

"But  she  proved — I  think  she  proved  it,"  argued 
du  Frettay  with  both  of  them. 

Rick  glanced  at  his  wife  in  turn.  "We  trust,"  he 
said,  "Wickford  will  reason  it  out." 

"Excellent,"  said  Gabriel,  subsiding.  "You  take 
my  point.  I  trust  he  will." 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  make  points,  you  and  Rick," 
said  Ernestine. 

"Pourquoi?"  asked  Gabriel. 

"It's  his  nature,"  said  Rick. 

"And  yet,"  said  Gabriel  to  Rick,  pursuing,  "it 


196  HATCHWAYS 

takes  a  man  of  intelligence  to  reason  it  out,  and  the 
Duke  may — well,  he  may  not  manage  it." 

"You're  very  unjust  to  Wickford  both  of  you," 
said  Ernestine. 

"Imagine,"  said  Gabriel,  looking  at  the  ceiling, 
"attached  to  so  sensitive  a  gift  for  humour,  what 
Lord  Wickford  might  have  to  suffer.  And  his 
guests.  ...  I  may  smoke,  Madame*?" 

"Yes, — and  please  don't  ask." 

"I  forget  I  shall  not  ask,  invariably.  I  will  note 
it.  Ouff,  I  feel  so  well  this  evening,"  said  Gabriel 
suddenly.  "It  is  that."  He  circled  a  hand  in  the 
air.  "It  comes  back  upon  me,  when  I  am  on  earth 
again." 

"You  had  no  business  to  go  without  warning  us," 
said  Mrs.  Redgate,  very  gravely. 

"You  would  have  been  anxious4?"  As  she  did 
not  answer,  working. — "It  is  habit,"  he  pursued. 
"I  never  tell  my  mother  till  I  am  down  again. 
When  I  am  completely  down, — most  of  me, — I  send 
her  a  carte-lettre  to  quiet  her.  I  have  found  it  bet- 
ter so.  ...  I  asked  Iveagh — Suir,  pardon, — when 
we  were  up,  if  he  would  come  with  me  to  France. 
He  said  'Yes'  without  emotion, — without  a  blink. 
He  is  a  person  I  could  fly  with  frequently — quite 
often " 


CAPTURE    OF    GABRIEL  197 

"If  you  do "  said  Ernestine,  stopping  her 

work. 

"I  shall  not  He  rides  too  well.  Those  do  not 
need  to  fly,  they  are  wasted.  Their  limbs  are 
wasted,"  explained  M.  du  Frettay,  crossing  his  own. 
"It  is  another  make." 

Mrs.  Redgate's  look  on  his  limbs  across  the  hearth 
suggested  that  she  thought  all  the  same  they  might 
be  wasted  by  the  complicated  fractures  he  seemed 
to  court  for  them  so  earnestly.  However,  there  was 
nothing  to  be  done  about  it,  since  his  own  mother 
was  evidently  helpless.  So  Ernestine  said  nothing, 
as  usual,  and  sewed.  Both  her  men  under  her  eyes 
were  very  comfortable,  two  of  her  women  dining  at 
Holmer, — and  Bess  in  bed. 

She  noted,  though,  his  use  of  Iveagh's  name,  as 
she  had  noted  Iveagh's  equally  flattering  use  of  the 
pronoun,  for  him.  She  thought  she  saw  under  his 
raillery  and  light  treatment  of  Miss  Courtier's 
"clown- trick"  the  quick  indignation  of  a  friend. 
He  had  come  round  again,  she  thought,  from  his 
cynical  outpost  of  observation,  and  was  committed 
once  more  to  the  boy's  party,  in  with  the  defence. 
He  was  so  good  for  Iveagh.  .  .  .  He  was  fortu- 
nately of  a  race  where  courage  and  sensitiveness  go 
hand  in  hand  (as  indeed  does  not  real  courage  al- 


198  HATCHWAYS 

ways'?)  and  he  was  of  those  that  hold  seriously,  like 
Sir  George  and  all  expert  adventurers,  that  reckless- 
ness, for  whatever  cause,  detracts  from  valour's 
worth.  That  was  the  friend  Iveagh  needed  at  this 
crisis,  eminently  all  that.  It  was  fortunate. 

And  he  was  nice, — courtly,  gentle:  Ernestine 
liked  him.  He  was  really  approachable,  affable  in 
the  French  or  Latin  sense.  Sir  George  had  it  too, 
that  gentleness  of  the  tamed  eagle.  It  surprised  her 
not  the  least,  when  her  woman's  mind  swept  about 
the  foundations  of  things, — the  family  foundations, 
— that  Sir  George  and  this  young  man's  father 
should  have  been  friends. 


PART  II 


XII 
USE 

Du  FRETTAY  fell  in  love  with  Lise  at  first  sight, 
confessed  to  a  hopelessly  broken  heart  at  their  sec- 
ond meeting,  received  Mrs.  Elphinstone's  insincere 
commiseration  on  his  sad  condition,  and  thenceforth 
tilted  tranquilly  with  her  as  if  he  had  known  her  all 
his  life. 

She  was  indeed  a  sweet  little  creature,  light  and 
airy,  with  a  pallidly  sallow  skin,  what  Gabriel 
called  "cinder-coloured"  hair,  and  dark  brown  eyes. 
She  was  liquid,  like  water,  as  Ernestine  said,  shim- 
mering, shadowing,  and  reflecting,  he  was  certain, 
at  all  times:  but  never  more  so  than  at  the  present 
time,  so  he  gathered  from  her  friends,  because  of  the 
languor  resulting  from  her  shaken  health.  She 
made  little  of  her  health,  when  asked,  but  the  eager, 
darting  activity  of  her  maidenhood,  manifest  in  the 
innumerable  stories  current  of  her  in  the  country- 
side, was  checked,  shattered  for  the  moment,  by  the 

cruel  chances  of  the  Indian  climate.     She  slipped 

201 


202  HATCHWAYS 

about  the  walks  at  Hatchways,  lay  about  on  Ernes- 
tine's sofas  and  hammocks,  almost  as  though 
crushed.  She  had  quiet  interludes  when  her  eyes 
were  still  and  dark,  like  pools,  reflecting  that  strange 
new  knowledge  of  wifehood,  that  strange  patience 
that  comes  with  marriage  to  flickering  rebellious 
presences  like  hers.  Gabriel  the  observer  had 
marked  that  in  many  a  clever  woman  previously, 
during  the  interval  between  wifehood  and  mater- 
nity, which  solves  all. 

But,  like  all  natural  transitions,  simply  reflected, 
it  was  beautiful.  It  made  Lise  more  wonderful, 
much.  She  could  never  before,  he  was  convinced, 
have  been  so  entrancing,  so  provoking.  For,  roused 
to  life  and  exchange,  not  a  glance  nor  shaft  of  her 
ancient  maiden  armoury  was  wanting.  Her  flexi- 
ble little  rapier, — if  a  little  out  of  practice,  owing 
to  her  Mark's  irreproachable  equipment, — had  never 
been  allowed  to  rust.  Lise,  in  whatever  virtuous  or 
exotic  society,  would  have  kept  it  in  play. 

Suir  society  responded  at  once,  that  was  one  of 
the  first  things  du  Frettay  noticed:  especially  the 
head  of  it, — Wickford  seemed  to  change  from  top 
to  toe.  Careful  and  troubled  in  advance,  he  let  go 
most  of  his  anxiety  at  the  sight  of  her,  and  let  her 
have  it  with  him,  as  she  pleased.  It  is  possible,  of 


LISE  203 

course,  that  Lise  and  her  like  had  always  had  it  as 
they  pleased,  in  private,  with  Wickford, — consider- 
ing his  high  position,  it  may  be  better  not  to  enquire. 
At  least  he  was  "easy,"  to  quote  Iveagh,  quite  re- 
markably from  first  meeting,  and  went  on  relaxing, 
rapidly.  There  was  that  about  Mrs.  Mark  Elphin- 
stone,  the  presence  of  her,  the  sight, — the  sound 
above  all, — which  attuned  her  company,  and  com- 
forted those  Western  hearts  which,  like  the  Duke's 
and  Iveagh's,  must  feel  Midland  Holmer  a  "fool  of 
a  place"  at  times. 

Lise  had,  at  least,  to  be  looked  at.  It  might  have 
been  regarded  as  heartless,  considering  Iveagh,  but 
they  all  came  out  upon  the  Hatchways  drive  to  look, 
when  Lise  and  Emer,  the  first  morning,  fell  into  each 
other's  arms.  Wreathed  in  Lise's  white  arms,  Emer 
endeavoured,  all  she  knew,  to  return  her  kisses. 
Such  as  Emer  are  sadly  handicapped,  when  it  comes 
to  kissing,  but,  snuffing  and  mumbling  with  velvet 
lips,  she  did  her  best. 

"Oh,  she's  being  polite, — ok,  she's  being  polite  to 
me,"  moaned  Lise,  her  cinder-coloured  head  against 
Emer's  neck.  "Ok,  she  doesn't  remember  really, 
it's  only  her  beautiful,  beautiful  manners,  all  put 
on!  Tell  me  you  haven't  forgotten,  my  angel,  the 
times  we  had  in  the  ferns  when  you  would  eat  them. 


204  HATCHWAYS 

And  it's  only  the  scent  that's  good  for  men  and 
horses,  never  the  taste.  ...  I  have  seen  nobody 
like  you,  Emer, — nobody!  Nor  you,  will  you  just 
assure  me"?  Best, — my  most  beautiful, — Iveagh, 
how  do  you  do?" 

"You  thought  I  was  the  groom,"  said  Iveagh 
equally. 

"I  did  not, — I  was  coming  on  to  you  in  the  eques- 
trian order  of  things."  (A  ridiculous  expression, 
meaning  nothing  at  all,  but  all  Lise's  circle  accepted 
it  calmly.)  "How  nice  it  is  to  see  you  both,"  pro- 
ceeded Mrs.  Elphinstone,  her  hand  in  Wickford's, 
perfectly  natural  tears  in  her  lovely  eyes.  "Men 
without  moustaches.  0^,  if  you  knew  what  it 
means  to  me,  home  and  Hatchways  and  the  hairless 
men!  Perhaps  M.  du  Frettay  has  got  one,  but  we 
will  not  look  in  his  direction.  .  .  .  Very  well,  thank 
you,  there  was  no  illness  in  it,  really,  nothing  at 
least  all  this  will  not  soon  cure.  .  .  .  Emer,  your 
robe  is  all  silver,  glancing, — M.  du  Frettay  calls  it 
a  robe.  You  must  come  out  of  the  stables  of  the 
moon  to  look  like  that — "  She  paused,  as  it  were 
enquiring. 

"She  comes  out  of  mine,"  said  Wickford. 

"And  what  do  I  owe  you*?"  said  Lise, — carrying 
Wickford,  prepared  for  most  things,  right  off  his 


LISE  205 

feet  by  the  one  question  in  the  world  he  thought  she 
dared  not  ask.  "Oh,  but  certainly" — seizing  her 
advantage — "I  shall  pay  her  pension,  had  you  not 
expected  it*?  Or  rather  my  hus " 

"If  he  dares!"  spluttered  Wickford.  Then,  as 
she  merely  shook  with  laughter,  her  head  in  Emer's 
neck, — "Get  out  with  you,  Lise,  insultin'  me! 
You've  just  been  study  in'  all  night  for  the  worst 
thing  you  could  say!  As  if  we  hadn't  all  ridden 
her  up  and  down,  every  day  of  the  week " 

"We  have  not  all,"  said  Iveagh. 

"Well,  it  was  over  Iveagh's  body  if  we  did  not," 
said  the  Duke,  with  a  lack  of  strict  sense  that  ran 
Lise's  late  effort  very  close.  "And  most  of  us  tried 
to  climb  onto  her  in  your  absence.  Addy,  for  in- 
stance  " 

"She  did  so  twice,"  said  Iveagh,  "and  no  thanks 
to  you  if  it  was  not  twenty  times " 

"Hark  at  him  accounting  for  his  stewardship  and 
now  they're  quarrelling,"  cut  in  Mrs.  Elphinstone, 
all  in  one  sweet  stream.  "Why  shouldn't  Ade- 
laide, on  earth,  if  she  wants  to,  Iveagh?  Where 
is  she,  Wickford,  and  why  has  she  not  come  down*? 
I  am  sure  I  mentioned  in  heaps  of  letters  she  was 
to,  and  Sam  also,  as  soon  as  I  got  here, — listen,  now ! 
I  give  the  whole  of  you  rendezvous  by  an  oversight 


206  HATCHWAYS 

at  the  same  hour  this  evening, — tea-time, — I  shall 
have  finished  my  sleep  by  then.  Ernestine  dearest, 
I'm  asking  the  neighbourhood  to  tea,  you  don't  mind 
it?  I  have  a  tropical  trick" — turning  back  to  the 
gentlemen — "of  slacking  in  the — Iveagh,  she  likes 
you  best!" 

The  last  was  a  little  flash,  or  snap,  of  jealousy, 
owing  to  certain  amenities  on  the  part  of  the  beauti- 
ful Emer  to  her  "groom's"  sly  advances,  while  Mrs. 
Elphinstone's  attention  had  been  otherwise  engaged. 

"She's  only  flirtin',"  said  Wickford,  having  looked 
that  way  for  a  period.  "Nothing  in  it,  anyhow  of 
a  nature  to  last." 

"Well,  if  that's  all  she'll  find  the  ground  safer  in 
your  direction,"  observed  Lise.  "I'm  only  advising 
her " 

"Harder,  you  mean*?"  asked  the  Duke.  Incor- 
rigible, they  were  now  playing  above  the  dangerous 
subject,  yet  somehow  harmlessly.  Grace  and  good- 
will, those  two  great  qualities  in  humour  saved 
them.  Grace  does  not  belong  to  the  English,  nor 
goodwill  to  the  French  wit  always:  M.  du  Frettay 
had  a  fine  chance,  really,  of  comparing  the  national 
shades. 

"Mark's  love  to  you,  Wickford,"  said  Lise, — 
"well,  is  he  not  related? — and  I  was  to  thank  vour 


LISE  207 

mother  for  endless  obligations,  in  person,  and  my 
best  clothes.  I  have  some  nowadays,  though  you 
might  not  think  it."  (Lise,  for  a  little  beauty,  had 
always  been  carelessly  dressed.)  "Mark's  so  anx- 
ious I  should  do  the  right  thing  by  all  of  you,  and 
your  mother  foremost,  naturally.  I  am  here,  as  one 
might  say,  to  represent  him " 

"You  look  it,"  said  the  brothers  together. 

"I  am  telling  you  the  simple  truth,"  said  Lise. 
"Just  let  me  know  when  I  can  wait  on  the  Duchess, 
will  you1?  I  preserved  that  expression  from  a  book 
I  was  reading  on  the  ship.  I'll  use  that  of  Wick- 
ford's  mother  when  I  get  there,  I  said  to  meself,  it 
becomes  my  station  exactly " 

"Get  out  with  you, — station!"  said  the  Duke. 

" — Being  now  a  kind  of  poor  dependent,"  con- 
cluded Lise,  preening  herself  in  the  sunshine,  "of 
your  honourable  house." 

"You  could  hardly  be  more  dependent  than  the 
house  is,"  said  Wickford.  "However,  we'll  get 
some  dinner  for  you  the  day  you  come  up.  The  boy 
there  has  been  shootin'  rabbits " 

So  they  ran  on,  in  great  accord:  and  in  league, 
too,  for  any  keen  eye  that  could  observe  it.  Lise 
and  Wickford,  by  common  consent,  were  filling  up 
time,  playing  to  the  gallery,  with  the  strong  con- 


208  HATCHWAYS 

sciousness  of  more  serious  drama  in  the  rear.  They 
were  hand  in  hand,  and  eye  to  eye  in  understanding, 
a  very  pretty  exhibition  of  friendship, — though  it 
was  perhaps  fortunate  Adelaide  was  not  about. 
There  are  grades,  Adelaide  might  have  thought,  to 
friendliness, — she  and  Wickford  might  not  have 
agreed  fully  as  to  the  grades.  As  for  the  Duchess 
— but  then,  Wickford  would  not  have  melted,  had 
his  mother  been  present,  so  that  worked  out  all  right. 
"Well,  this  is  over  for  the  time  being,  I  will  not 
keep  you,"  said  Mrs,  Elphinstone  graciously,  when 
she  had  had  enough  of  teasing  Wick  on  the  subject 
of  Mark.  "You  are  both  of  you,  surely,  longing 
to  be  away.  My  wonderful," — with  sudden  arms 
wreathing  the  mare  again,  "you  may  say  thank  you 
to  his  younger  lordship  once,  with  propriety, — don't 
be  led  on  by  his  artfulness  to  make  too  much  of  the 
obligation,  which  is  nothing  to  speak  of,  to  those 
really  knowing  his  tastes.  When  we  are  alone  to- 
gether, Emer,  you  shall  tell  me  about  it, — the  times 
you  had, — the  trouble  you  had  with  them  wanting 
you,  all  of  them, — too  many  of  them — "  Her 
wicked  voice  died  away  in  the  mare's  mane.  "No, 
Iveagh,"  she  resumed  with  sudden  energy.  "No,  I ' 
am  not  dressed  for  it, — do  be  sensible  a  little, — look 
at  my  silk!" 


LISE  209 

"It  was  not  your  habit  to  wear  silk  in  the  fore- 
noon," said  the  other  brother,  just  behind  her. 
'That's  to  match  Mark's  moustache  I  shouldn't 
wonder, — up  you  go!" 

"That's  all  right, — good  girl,"  thought  Mrs. 
Redgate:  for  again  it  was  the  Duke,  ably  ousting 
his  brother,  who  had  his  hand  beneath  her  little  shoe. 
Between  the  two,  Iveagh  had  not  been  able  to  touch 
her,  to  approach  even  for  more  than  a  moment :  and 
now  she  sat  her  horse  superbly,  girl  and  horse  silk- 
robed  in  the  sunshine,  a  sight  to  heal  sore  eyes. 

Wickford  led  Emer  once  across  the  gravel  sweep, 
needfully,  one  hand  up  to  the  rider,  for  Lise,  Mark's 
or  no,  was  a  precious  thing  to  be  protected,  and  Emer 
was  saddled  for  a  man.  Lise,  for  herself,  took  no 
pains:  she  leant  to  talk  to  him,  chattering  low,  for 
the  whole  distance, — it  was  the  chance  for  a  little 
real  confidence,  before  Adelaide  came.  Finally,  her 
hand  on  his  shoulder,  she  flew  to  the  earth,  and  so 
turned  back  to  the  house,  languor  once  more  veiling 
her  whole  demeanour  and  gait.  She  passed  Iveagh, 
standing  solitary  and  neglected  on  the  garden  drive, 
without  a  word  of  farewell,  nor  even  a  smile  to  con- 
sole him:  and  taking  hold  of  Bess's  arm,  drew  her 
away  in  the  direction  of  the  orchard,  where  her  ham- 
mock was  slung.  Lise  was  behaving  beautifully, 


210  HATCHWAYS 

no  doubt  of  it:  it  was  all  very,  very  well  done,  that 
opening  interview,  on  Lise's  part.  Only — well, 
how  is  it  to  be  helped  when  young  persons  are  made 
pictorial,  and  have  practised  making  pictures  of 
themselves  and  their  surroundings  all  their  life? 

"That  is  the  most  beautiful  sight  I  ever  saw," 
said  du  Frettay,  quite  seriously,  when  it  was  over. 
"Oh,  Madame,  Madame, — you  are  brave!" 

"Do  you  think  I  am  worse  than  brave1?"  she 
asked,  quickly  for  her.  "Go  beyond  it*?" 

"It  is  wonderful  daring,"  said  du  Frettay. 
"That  is  all  I  dare  to  say.  You  flash  the  fact  of  her 
right  in  his  face,  liein? — and  so  blind  him." 

"I  do  not  at  all  wish  to  blind  him,"  said  Ernes- 
tine. "Besides,"  she  added,  "it  is  very  hard  to  do." 

"Nevertheless,  I  think  you  have  a  great  trust  in 
truth,"  said  du  Frettay.  "In  the  whole  truth,  pre- 
sented whole,  not  in  parts  of  it.  You  think  that 
is  healthy  for  the  mind." 

"Do  \T  she  laughed.     "Go  on." 

"I  shall  not  go  on, — you  are  not  interested.  You 
are  far  more  interested,"  said  Gabriel  resentfully, 
"in  all  that  world  of  silly  little  persons,  than  in 
yourself." 

"I  do  like  them,"  she  admitted,  "they  are  so  funny 
and  troublesome.  And  their  troubles,"  she  added, 


LISE  211 

flushing  a  very  little,    "are  more  important  than 
mine." 

"That  is  it, — that  is  it,"  he  reflected.  "You 
think  you  are  rangee,  finished.  How  strange  that 
is,  here,  for  women  still  beautiful  and  young!"  A 
little  later,  the  other  admission  of  the  speech  struck 
him.  "You  have  troubles,"  he  thought,  "troubles 
of  your  own, — I  might  have  known  it.  I  wonder 
what  they  are?" 

Lise  continued  to  behave  beautifully.  Of  course, 
it  was  quite  possible  that  at  home,  in  private  life, 
she  always  had.  Her  mother  loved  her  pas- 
sionately, and  it  was  all  Mrs.  Fitzmaurice  could  do 
to  spare  her  to  Hatchways,  even  for  a  week.  But 
the  regular  Hatchways  club-contingent  of  young 
people  had  rarely,  if  ever,  seen  Miss  Fitzmaurice  at 
home,  since  her  mother  was  delicate.  They  had 
seen  her  visiting,  on  the  liberal  terms  de  rigueur  in 
the  Suir  community:  and  flirting, — each  happy 
gentleman  in  private,  and  combined,  in  the  melee: 
and  hunting,  mounted,  vivid  and  wild  as  Diana  let 
loose '  for  the  chase.  Domestically,  for  all  they 
knew, — for  all  Mark  and  Mrs.  Fitzmaurice  had  ever 
let  them  know, — she  might  be  a  pure  star  of  pru- 
dence and  decorum.  Iveagh  was  quite  sure  she  was. 


HATCHWAYS 

Lise  wrote  to  Mark  every  evening,  sitting  upright 
at  Ernestine's  desk.  It  was  true,  her  eyes  melted 
a  little  on  her  surroundings  while  she  told  him 
things,  but  she  told  him — her  world  was  assured — 
the  "simple  truth."  She  practised  her  music,  fit- 
fully; then,  obeying  no  doubt  some  bidding  in  her 
atmosphere,  she  conceived  a  warm  admiration  for 
Bess.  Lise  had  never  met  Bess  in  the  life,  though 
she  had  heard  about  her  from  the  Suir  boys,  who  im- 
plied "the  girl"  was  all  a  girl  should  be.  Lise 
agreed  with  the  Suir  boys:  she  cultivated  Bess,  and 
drew  her  from  obscurity.  She  thought  her  draw- 
ings wonderful,  clever  beyond  praise:  she  was  im- 
patient with  Ernestine  and  du  Frettay  for  not 
admiring  them  more.  She  chased  Bess,  haunted  her, 
wooed  her,  sued  for  her  affection.  She  was  ready, 
in  the  cause  of  Bess,  to  take  three  kittens  on  her  lap 
at  once. 

Not  that  this  last  was  any  sacrifice  to  Lise:  a 
kitten  herself,  she  enjoyed  them.  She  let  the  irre- 
pressible Pickle,  aspiring  to  her  shoulder,  make  a 
ladder  of  her  silken  skirts.  She  agitated  an  absent 
finger,  while  conversing,  in  the  right,  the  only  way: 
the  movement  which  first  stiffens  an  attentive  kitten, 
then  causes  its  head  to  wave  slightly  as  it  focusses, 
then  illumines  the  focussed  eyes  to  a  haggard  glare : 


LISE  213 

lastly,  provokes  a  terrific  onslaught  on  the  finger  to 
slay  it,  to  finish  it,  to  eat  it  up.  At  this  awful  junc- 
ture Lise,  instead  of  abstracting  her  pretty  white 
finger  (which  is  unwise)  let  it  lie  dead  in  her  lap, 
quite  dead,  suppliant,  appealing.  Whereupon  the 
savage  onslaught  grows  dubious,  grows  slack,  grows 
silly,  the  eyes  question,  the  sharp  teeth  enter  not, — 
and  the  whole  drama  ends  with  the  tender  and 
tentative  licking  of  the  finger  by  a  small  rough 
tongue. 

Such  are  cat-manners,  strange  and  delicate,  which 
Lise  knew  by  instinct  and  imitation,  and  Bess  by  love 
and  study.  Unquestionably,  such  knowledge  is  a 
bond.  Certainly,  those  two  Elizabeths  should  have 
joined  forces  over  it.  Yet,  persistently,  Bess  was 
shy  of  Lise. 

Lise,  observing  it,  chased  her  shyness.  "Why 
are  you  on  your  manners  with  me?"  she  asked,  in 
her  careless  little  captivating  fashion.  "Ye"  she 
said  faintly  for  the  you, — as  Iveagh  did, — as  Wick- 
ford  did  sometimes.  Bess's  heart,  having  nothing 
else  to  feed  on  for  the  moment,  fed  on  the  way  she 
spoke. 

Bess  could  not  answer  the  question,  though,  and 
Ernestine  would  not.  Ernestine  said  Bess  was 
always  shy.  "Yes,  but  why  with  me?"  said  Lise. 


214  HATCHWAYS 

She  asked,  little  by  little,  in  the  manner  that  proved 
she  guessed. 

She  approached  Rick,  flattering  and  cajoling,  but 
Uncle  Rick  was  very  careful.  He  hinted  that  the 
Ryeborn  family,  in  general,  was  a  little  stiff, — in 
the  sense  of  straight,  straight-backed.  In  a  won- 
derfully unassuming  fashion,  it  held  its  head  up. 
You  might  almost  call  it  pride,  or  dignity.  Look 
at  Ernestine! 

Mrs.  Elphinstone  looked,  having  never,  like  most 
people,  much  thought  of  looking  before.  And  she 
saw,  of  course,  the  family  resemblance, — Mr.  Red- 
gate  was  right.  And  she  had,  by  so  looking,  some 
slight,  slow  illumination  upon  Bess. 

"Where  do  they  come  from,  really1?"  she  asked 
him  in  confidence. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  really?"  said  Rick,  who, 
being  a  Times  critic,  picked  at  words. 

Lise  meant  the  Duchess,  of  course,  by  really. 
The  Duchess  having  been,  on  one  occasion,  annoyed 
with  her  dear  Ernestine  in  Lise's  company,  had  aired 
the  Manchester  charge.  The  Duchess  had  an  idea, 
that  day,  that  the  Ryeborn  people  had  their  origins 
there,  or  thereabouts.  She  was  not  convinced 
(Ernestine  had  annoyed  her  so)  that  cotton-mills 
and  so  on  were  not  at  the  back  of  it.  Or  linen-mills, 


LISE  215 

which  is  worse,  because  it  contains  a  soupcon  of  Mr. 
Ruskin,  and  his  gentlemanly  but  rather  trying  ideas. 

Lise  explained  that  the  Duchess  was  what  her 
"really"  meant.  She  was  very  tactful  and  comical 
over  the  Duchess,  so  Rick's  literary  horns  lay  down. 

"They're  a  Northern  lot,  my  wife's,"  said  Rick. 
"You've  only  to  see  'em  tackle  a  Midland  gang,  to 
be  sure  of  that." 

"I  saw  so  well,  when  she  talked  to  Sir  Giles,"  said 
Lise.  Rick's  literary  snail-horns  retreated  almost. 

"Stuffy,"  said  Rick,  "the  Midland  people  are. 
Not  a  breeze  about  'em." 

"Quite  windless,"  said  Lise.     "But  Mark " 

"Oh,  the  Captain's  a  man  o'  parts,"  said  Rick, 
pleasantly.  "Brains,  in  any  fellei,  makes  all  the 
breeze  necessary." 

"Dear  Mark,"  said  Lise,  as  was  correct.  She 
clasped  her  little  hands  on  her  skirt, — or  rather  on 
the  kitten  that  lay  there. 

"Then  you  think  Miss  Ryeborn  is  too  proud  to 
talk  to  me,"  she  said  softly. 

"I  never  said  that,"  parried  Rick.  "Bess'll  make 
friends,  right  enough,  if  you  leave  her  a  little  time. 
You  must  give'  em  rope,  if  you  understand  me :  not 
follow  too  close." 

"I  love  independence,"  said  Lise.     So  she  did,  for 


216  HATCHWAYS 

herself.  She  did  not  love  independence  of  her, 
though:  and  she  barely  understood  it,  except  on  one 
theory  that  was  growing  in  her  daily. 

When  she  left  him  alone,  the  master  of  Hatch- 
ways looked  before  him,  for  some  time,  in  medita- 
tion. Then  he  said — "Clever  little  puss," — lifted 
his  brows,  and  took  off  his  spectacles.  Then  he  said 
— "Fancy  me  explaining  her," — and  laughed. 

He  was  not  thinking  of  Bess,  though;  he  was 
thinking  of  Ernestine.  Life,  since  he  had  known 
the  Ryeborns  first,  flashed  before  him,  as  he  formu- 
lated for  Lise's  information  that  simple  phrase — 
"Not  follow  too  close." 


XIII 
LISE  WAITS  ON  THE  DUCHESS 

LISE  went  on  behaving  beautifully. 

She  waited  on  the  Duchess,  up  at  the  House. 
Dressed  in  her  best  clothes,  much  advertised  before- 
hand to  her  former  playmates,  she  prepared  an  as- 
sault on  the  staid  Victorian  portals  of  Holmer,  there 
to  assume  her  new  "station"  towards  the  Wickford 
family,  owing  to  Mark.  She  was  to  go  alone,  Mrs. 
Mark  Elphinstone  in  her  own  right, — most  enter- 
taining. Three  gentlemen  at  starting  offered  their 
escort,  but  Lise  proudly  rejected  them  all. 

"Will  I  do1?"  said  Lise,  entering  carelessly  upon 
lots  of  people  in  the  Hatchways  drawing-room,  at 
the  usual  reception-hour,  four  o'clock.  It  happened 
to  be  rather  a  selected  day, — two  Justices  of  the 
Peace  were  present,  not  to  mention  a  pillar  of  the 
Church.  The  pink  china  replaced  the  blue  dragons 
on  the  silver  tray,  Bess's  daffodils  were  grouped 
about,  and  the  western  sunshine  flashing  over  all. 

"How  nice  you  all  look,"  said  Lise,  with  truth. 
217 


218  HATCHWAYS 

"How  are  ye,  Canon  Oxborough?  How  do  ye  do, 
Sir  Giles?  Wickford,  what  are  you  here  for"?  I'm 
just  about  to  wait  on  you,  up  at  the  house." 

There  was  protest,  naturally:  Wickford  and 
others  said  things, — quite  inadequate.  There  was 
nothing  at  all  adequate  for  man  to  say.  Lise  was 
dressed  in  what  she  called  "satiny  velvet,"  of  a  dull 
olive  shade.  She  had  lace  ruffles,  and  long  feathers, 
and  little  pearls  in  her  little  ears,  and  goodness 
knows  what  that  was  distracting.  Canon  Oxbor- 
ough,  who  possessed  what  other  Oxboroughs  called 
the  "gift  of  the  gab,"  to  wit  a  pleasant  social  man- 
ner, remarked  that  Mrs.  Elphinstone,  in  so  approach- 
ing his  sister,  was  taking  an  unfair  advantage. 

"I  need  all^me  advantages,"  said  Lise,  looking 
ravishing.  "I'm  going  on  business,  for  my  husband 
and  others.  I'm  as  frightened  as  possible.  Take 
that  cat  off  me,  Wickford,  would  you  mind*?" 

"Like  me  to  hold  on  to,"  asked  Wickford,  remov- 
ing the  Pickle,  like  a  burr,  from  her  satiny  skirts. 
Two  other  persons  offered  their  services,  as  has  been 
said.  She  really  looked,  as  she  stood  before  them, 
too  fragile  and  fine  for  business  offices :  and  anyhow, 
it  seemed  absurd  for  Lise  to  be  alone. 

"Have  some  tea  before  you  go,"  said  Bess  behind. 

"No,"  said  Lise,  turning  that  way,  "I  do  not  re- 


LISE    WAITS    ON    THE    DUCHESS      219 

gard  it  as  polite  to  the  Duchess.  I  must  suppose 
her  tea's  at  least  as  good  as  yours." 

"But  you  know  it  is  not,"  reasoned  the  Duke. 

"That  makes  no  difference  to  politeness,"  retorted 
Lise.  "Whenever  did  politeness  and  the  truth  take 
hands'?  I've  learnt  manners,  I  may  mention,  since 
you  saw  me." 

Still,  lightly  as  she  spoke,  she  eyed  the  pink  tea- 
cups and  the  steaming  kettle  wistfully.  She  felt 
sleepy, — tired:  she  longed  to  be  told  by  Ernestine 
or  somebody  authoritative  that  she  might  stay.  Yet 
the  Duchess  had  signified  by  her  son  that  she  would 
be  at  home  to-day:  Ernestine,  engaged  with  Mr. 
Courtier,  who  was  honouring  her  by  his  half-yearly 
visit,  gave  no  lead:  duty  was  duty,  and  Mark  was 
Mark.  So  Lise  shook  off  those  who  would  have  de- 
tained her,  the  Pickle  included,  and  made  her  way 
mournfully  to  the  door.  Canon  Oxborough,  getting 
there  before  his  brother  with  clerical  cunning,  opened 
it  and  claimed  a  visit  at  his  Canonry,  simul- 
taneously. 

"Come  and  see  my  primulas,"  minced  the  Canon : 
that  is,  Giles  who  attended  called  it  mincing.  Giles 
hated  Lionel,  at  the  moment.  Primulas,  indeed! 

Lise  went  on  behaving  beautifully. 


220  HATCHWAYS 

At  the  Holmer  entrance,  near  by  the  lodge,  she 
met  M.  du  Frettay  emerging.  He  was  dressed  as 
for  riding,  but  without  a  horse.  Well,  then,  the 
case  was  clear :  he  had  been  riding  one  of  Wickf ord's 
horses,  had  left  his  mount  at  the  Holmer  stable,  and 
was  now  going  back  to  Hatchways  to  tea.  He  was 
late  for  tea,  but  being  French  he  took  it  uncon- 
cernedly. He  might  not  even  be  aware  of  it,  since 
he  had  been  in  the  company,  most  probably,  of 
Iveagh,  who  judged  hours  out-of-doors,  if  he  judged 
them  at  all,  by  the  sun. 

"Madame!"  said  M.  du  Frettay,  sweeping  off 
his  hat  in  an  agreeably  excessive  manner,  and  bring- 
ing his  heels  together.  "Toute  seule !"  Lise  smiled 
at  M.  du  Frettay,  and  stopped  in  the  road. 

"I'm  waiting  on  the  Duchess,"  she  explained. 
"I'm  getting  frightened  a  little.  Walk  with  me  up 
to  the  door." 

M.  du  Frettay  swung  on  his  heel  immediately. 
And  this  though  he  had  been  making  for  refresh- 
ment, after  riding!  A  nice,  self-denying  foreign 
man. 

"I'll  not  take  you  further,"  said  Lise  consolingly. 
"It's  only  the  sight  of  these  black  trees  rather  put  me 
out.  Once  through  them  it's  better,  isn't  it?" 


LISE    WAITS    ON    THE    DUCHESS      221 

"The  worst  is  over,"  Gabriel  agreed.  They  en- 
tered, and  passed  the  Lodge. 

"I  was  just  wondering  if  I  could  manage  it,  when 
you  met  me,"  said  Lise.  "So  dark  they  are  and 
daunting.  Often  I've  wondered  Wick  doesn't  cut 
them  down." 

Gabriel  agreed  again,  heedlessly.  Cut  them 
down !  Irreverent  aliens !  Cut  down  Holmer  Ave- 
nue, fit  entrance  to  its  sacred  haunts!  What  is  a 
residence  without  an  Avenue,  anyhow"? 

"It's  useful  in  a  rainstorm,  of  course,"  said  Lise, 
looking  up  at  the  trees.  "The  times  I've  ridden 
under  them  wringing  wet  after  a  long  day.  There 
is  one  thing  about  Holmer,  they  dry  you.  Big  fires 
and  so  on,  they  dry  you  thoroughly  well.  I  kept  a 
complete  change  of  linen  here,"  said  Lise,  pensively, 
"and  so  did  Adelaide.  It  was  Wickford  advised 
us  to  do  so,  in  case  of  catching  cold." 

"They  are  hospitable,"  said  M.  du  Frettay  de- 
murely, but  his  eyes  were  dancing.  However,  he 
was  far  too  genuinely  gallant  to  take  advantage  of 
such  innocent  confidences. 

"It  seems  to  me  wanting  in  features,"  he  said, 
criticising  the  Holmer  property.  "Perhaps  I  mean 
personality." 


222  HATCHWAYS 

"I  expect  you  do,"  said  Lise.  "The  features  are 
there  all  right.  I'm  surprised  at  you,  M.  du  Fret- 
tay.  Have  you  never  stood  upon  the  Rustic 
Bridge?  Have  you  seen  the  Shrubberies,  and  the 
Prospect?  Has  Wickford  shown  you  the  Belve- 
dere?" 

"I  have  not  seen  the  Belvedere,"  admitted 
Gabriel. 

"Then  you'll  have  to,— I'll  tell  Ernestine.  The 
first  fine  day  there  is  we'll  go  over  en  masse  and  look 
at  it.  It's  a  good  step  from  here,  off  that  way,  the 
other  side  of  their  land.  It's  placed  on  a  hill,  and 
faces  the  best  view  here,  for  miles  round.  You  look 
away  eastward  across  the  counties,  and  across  Eng- 
land, and  Mr.  Marchant  says  across  Europe  to  the 
Ural  Mountains,  but  I'm  not  believing  the  stories 
he  tells.  Anyhow  it's  all  blue  and  wonderful  where 
the  sky  gets  mixed  with  the  land.  I  expect  you 
know  the  kind  of  view  I  mean." 

"We  saw  the  kind  several  times  to-day,"  said 
Gabriel.  "You  describe  it  perfectly.  But  the 
Belvedere,  Madame, — for  mercy's  sake,  why  the 
name?" 

"I've  not  the  least  idea,"  said  Lise.  "Nor  Wick- 
ford,  because  I  asked  him.  Why  the  Prospect,  if 
you  come  to  that.  There's  no  prospect  in  it  but  a 


LISE    WAITS    ON    THE    DUCHESS      223 

pair  of  seedy  yew-trees.  The  Belvedere's  made  of 
plaster,  chiefly,  and  half-peeled.  It  has  little  dolly 
pillars  you  could  pull  down  with  one  hand.  Iveagh 
says  he  will  some  night, — they  both  hate  it  like 
poison.  And  who  wonders,  with  a  view  like  that  to 
shame  it?  It  has  what's  the  three-cornered  thing 
on  Italian  temples  pretending  to  be  Greek;  and  in- 
stead of  letting  ill  alone,  they  have  scraped  an  im- 
proving saying  on  it  out  of  Wordsworth, — and  the 
Wickford  arms." 

"Oh,  oh!"  protested  Gabriel.  "Not  both,  Ma- 
dame. You  exaggerate." 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,"  said  Lise,  with  a  charming 
giggle.  "You  wait  and  see.  There!" — They 
came  out  of  the  Avenue.  "Now  it  feels  better,  you 
can  go  back  if  you  like.  .  .  .  Who's  that  in  front 
of  us, — the  schoolmistress1?  Now  what's  Renie  All- 
good  mean  by  going  to  see  the  Duchess  the  day  I 
call?" 

"I  can  only  be  sure,"  said  Gabriel,  "that  Miss 
Irene  Allgood  has  an  excellent  object, — as  much  as 
the  Duchess  in  receiving  her." 

"But  so  have  I  an  object,"  asserted  Lise.  "Here 
I  am  doing  the  correct  thing  by  my  husband  in  com- 
ing, as  I  take  it, — and  keeping  the  peace." 

"What,"  said  Gabriel,  "is  the  peace  in  danger?" 


HATCHWAYS 

"You  know  it  is!  Don't  go  pretending.  And, 
by  the  same  token,"  said  Lise,  with  an  air  of  discov- 
ery, "you  might  give  me  your  ideas.  Listen  now, 
— if  you  want  to  take  years  from  my  age " 

"I  do  not,"  said  Gabriel,  having  calculated. 

"Now  be  serious,  because  I  am,"  entreated  Lise. 
"I  really  need  to  know  this  before  I  go  in.  Of 
course,  I  notice  Lady  Wick's  fallen  out  with  Ernes- 
tine. Now  what  I  want  to  know " 

"De  grace,  let  me  off,"  he  said,  turning  graver. 

"I  will  not,  because  I  am  sure  you  know  it.  Is 
there  anything,"  said  Lise,  "between  Wickford  and 
that  girl?' 

"Miss  Bess?  I  have  reason,"  said  Gabriel,  after 
an  interval,  "to  believe  there  is  not." 

"Good.  Is  there  anything  between  her  and 
Iveagh?" 

"I  am  not  certain  perfectly,"  said  Gabriel,  after 
another  interval,  "of  the  sense  of  your  expression. 
But  I  believe  there  is  not." 

Lise  was  silent,  satisfied.  She  had  her  answer. 
She  was  a  woman,  so  she  was  not  going  to  summon 
a  man,  however  foreign  and  ingenious,  to  declare 
that  "the  girl"  was  in  love  with  his  own  friend,  un- 
requited :  but  that  was  what  he  meant,  she  was  sure. 
If  for  no  other  reason,  that  he  was  even  quicker  in 


LISE    WAITS    ON    THE    DUCHESS      225 

the  uptake  than  she  was ;  and  she  had  already  scented 
the  fact. 

Still  behaving  beautifully,  Lise  arrived  at  the 
door  of  Holmer  mansion,  and  stood  upon  the  steps; 
and  still  M.  du  Frettay  followed,  quiet  and  courtly, 
seeing  her  safe. 

"I'm  frightened,"  she  told  him  briefly  again:  and 
it  struck  him,  as  a  fact,  she  was.  The  Duchess,  to 
girls,  was  frightening;  she  always  had  been  so,  in 
the  past :  and  Lise,  aged  twenty-two,  felt  a  girl  again 
on  her  premises.  Her  little  pulses  were  beating 
fast,  audible  in  the  gloomy  silence,  while  they  stood 
waiting  for  the  last  barrier  to  fall. 

"Enter  the  seneschal,"  said  Lise,  as  steps  were 
heard.  "It's  like  a  tale  of  Scott's!  I  know  the 
man  Michael  well,  but  I  dursn't  look  at  him.  Oh 
dear!"  The  door  opened.  "Is  the  Duchess  at 
home?"  said  Lise,  very  grand. 

Her  Grace  was,  madam. 

"You  can  go  now,"  murmured  Lise.  "You  want 
food,  and  she  gives  you  nothing  to  speak  of."  But 
she  looked  pale,  to  du  Frettay's  eyes,  and  he  followed 
her  on. 

They  crossed  the  stodgy  hall,  and  passed  the 
frightful  staircase  to  the  door  of  the  drawing-room, 


226  HATCHWAYS 

which  cracked  as  the  man  opened  it  to  admit  them. 
It  would  be  necessary  to  ask  such  as  Ernestine  why 
some  doors  crack, — excessive  varnish  in  the  past, 
probably.  Holmer  House,  for  want  of  a  single 
graceful  line,  was  varnished  from  top  to  toe.  It 
smelt  of  it,  for  all  the  Duchess  could  do.  Most  of 
the  woodwork  was  reddish,  perhaps  mahogany. 
We  have  referred  before  to  the  chimney-marble. 
We  refrain  from  reference  to  the  plaster-moulding, 
grates,  or  the  handles  of  the  doors. 

The  only  chance  was  arson,  as  Iveagh  said. 

"Ugh,  what  a  place!"  moaned  little  Lise,  in  to 
herself.  "Iveagh,  I  want  you."  Aloud  she  said — 
"This  was  the  room  where  I  met  my  husband  first. 
It's  funny  to  think  of  it,  wanting  him." 

Gabriel  debated  that  "wanting."  Which  lan- 
guage was  it,  and  what  did  it  stand  for"?  There  are 
so  many  possible  shades  of  meaning  to  the  word. 

"That's  Iveagh's  father,"  said  Lise,  walking 
across  the  room.  She  did  not  say  Wickford's. 
"He  was  a  wonderful  speaker,  my  husband  says, — 
persuasive.  He's  the  orator's  mouth,  wouldn't  you 
say"?  And  such  sad  eyes." 

"Curious  his  sons  have  not  inherited  it,"  said  du 
Frettay,  looking  hard  at  the  portrait's  eyes,  which 


LISE    WAITS    ON    THE    DUCHESS      227 

gloomed  a  little,  as  Lise  said.  Sulky,  almost, — the 
greatest  wit  of  his  generation. 

"There's  not  much  likeness  to  either  of  them 
either,"  he  said. 

"He  was  a  handsomer  man."  Lise  changed  place 
again,  restlessly,  to  the  window,  whence  one  gazed 
upon  the  terrace  and  the  Shrubbery,  a  trifle  less  un- 
inviting than  the  room.  "Mark  says  he  was  won- 
derful with  Iveagh,  managing  him  in  his  little 
tantrums  when  no  one  could.  Mark  remembers 
more  than  Wickford  even,  he's  older.  He's  told 
me  lots  and  lots  about  the  early  days.  Once  the 
Secretary  of  State  came  in  for  a  kind  of  confabula- 
tion,— and  there  was  little  Iveagh,  asleep  in  the 
Duke's  big  chair.  Six  he  was, — he'd  had  a  bad  day 
of  it, — nurses,  his  mother  at  her  wits'  end,  Wick 
worried  and  Mark  shocked." 

"Shocked*?"  asked  Gabriel. 

"Naturally.  Mark  had  never  seen  such  things, — 
it  was  his  first  visit.  He  can't  ever  understand 
Iveagh  anyhow.  Of  course  he  tries." 

Odd,  thought  du  Frettay,  her  little  head  was  so 
full  of  Iveagh.  Was  it  merely  the  contrast  with  the 
varnish  and  stodgery,  or  some  other  inward  debate? 

"Now  you   can  go,"   said   Lise,   turning   rather 


228  HATCHWAYS 

abruptly  to  face  him.  "You  don't  like  calling  in 
riding-clothes  anyhow.  It's  a  shame  to  be  treating 
you  like  Mark." 

"Is  that  how  you  treat  him'?"  ventured  Gabriel. 

"Mark,"  said  Lise,  "can't  stand  doing  anything 
in  the  wrong  clothes.  It's  a  weakness  of  his, — the 
only  one.  Sometimes  I  catch  him  out,  for  the  fun 
of  it,  and  he  hates  it.  You're  hating  it  now, — don't 
tell  me, — but  you're  too  polite  to  say  so.  Go  back 
while  you  can,  M.  du  Frettay, — yes,  I  wish  it." 
She  stamped  her  foot.  "You're  tired,  really,  and 
Ernestine  will  see  to  you  best.  Go  quick  now,  while 
you  have  time." 

M.  du  Frettay  went.  He  had  been  in  serious 
danger  for  twenty  minutes  past  of  losing  his  head, 
not  to  say  heart,  in  this  company.  So  he  went,  as 
directed, — while  he  had  time. 

The  door  cracked,  as  it  closed  behind  him;  Lise 
was  left  alone.  She  sat  down  on  the  piano-stool, 
yawned  a  little,  and  rested  her  elbow  on  the  closed 
keyboard. 

"I  want  me  tea,"  she  observed,  to  the  walls  of 
the  drawing-room.  She  really  did.  She  was  too 
tired  to  bear  solitude.  Du  Frettay  had  helped 
things  along  nicely  while  he  lasted;  now  by  her  own 


LISE    WAITS    ON    THE    DUCHESS      229 

choice  she  had  dismissed  him,  and  felt  the  gap  the 
more. 

"Isn't  the  woman  in,  after  all*?  And  why  on 
earth  does  he  not  tell  me  so1?" 

Thus  soliloquised  Lise,  in  the  direction  of  the 
Duke's  portrait.  She  had  an  idea  he  was  sympa- 
thising, granted  a  lovely  lady  in  satiny-velvet 
clothes,  in  his  own  reception-room.  Deserted,  dur- 
ing her  state  visit  to  his  halls, — surely,  he  could  not 
approve  of  it! 

Suddenly  Lise,  having  half-opened  the  piano-lid, 
closed  it  again  softly.  She  had  an  idea. 

"Where's  that  girl?"  she  said,  aloud  as  before. 

The  idea  of  the  girl, — Miss  Irene  Allgood,  cer- 
tificated Froebel  instructress  of  youth,  filled  her 
thoughts  completely.  It  poured  in,  ousting  every- 
body, Mark  and  Iveagh  included.  Where,  indeed, 
was  that  girl,  who  had  been  on  the  steps  of  Holmer 
just  before  her?  Why,  granted  the  Duchess  de- 
layed or  not  at  home,  was  she  not  waiting  too? 

Slowly,  as  she  sat  at  the  piano,  looking  before  her, 
the  blood  of  the  Fitzmaurices  mounted  to  Lise's 
pretty  sallow  cheek.  Her  eyes  sparkled,  her  back 
straightened,  her  hand  dropped  from  the  piano's 
closed  keys.  What*?  .  .  .  Almost  in  the  same  in- 
stant, steps  were  heard. 


230  HATCHWAYS 

The  door  cracked,  and  Michael  entered,  looking 
very  grave. 

"Her  Grace  is  sorry  she  is  detained,  madam,"  re- 
hearsed Michael  formally.  "Business  of  some  im- 
portance. Her  Grace  wonders,  with  her  excuses,  if 
you  would  care  to  show  Mr.  du  Frettay  the  Shrub- 
beries, for  twenty  minutes  to  half  an  hour,  while 
you  wait." 

Michael  himself  added  the  excuses,  being  an  Irish 
gentleman.  His  mistress,  as  a  fact,  had  sent  no 
excuses  to  the  girl  at  all. 

Twenty  minutes  to  half  an  hour!  The  idea  of 
it!  Renie  in  front  of  her,  openly  preferred  to  her, 
— to  herself,  Mark's  wife,  come  against  the  grain 
in  his  interest, — her  very  first  call  as  his  bride! 
Treated  like  a  girl,  a  common  girl,  to  be  snubbed, 
swept  aside,  forgotten 

"I'll  pay  her  out!"  thought  Lise  immediately. 

Slowly,  during  the  portentous  pause,  her  eyes  on 
the  footman  altered.  She  had  known  him  once — 
some  time  before — they  had  been  acquainted. 

"M.  du  Frettay  is  gone,  as  you  see,  Michael,"  she 
said. 

Michael  saw  it,  sorrowfully.  Slowly,  during  the 
next  silence,  he  recognised  Miss  Lise. 

"Is  it  a  tadpole  escaped4?"  said  Lise  suddenly. 


LISE    WAITS    ON    THE    DUCHESS      231 

Michael  believed  not.  Miss  Allgood  had  not 
told  him,  but  he  had  an  idea  it  was  some  matter  of 
the  children's  games.  Games!  Of  course,  if  Lise 
had  studied  with  Froebel,  she  would  have  known 
the  profound  historic  significance  and  moral  value 
of  games.  But  she  was  not  Froebelian,  nor  Ger- 
manic in  any  sense. 

During  the  next  interval,  she  seemed  to  be  feeling 
for  a  card.  She  sought  it,  could  not  find  it  at  once, 
thinking  of  other  things.  .  .  . 

"Lord  Iveagh  might  be  there,"  mentioned  Michael 
hopefully.  "He  was  round  at  the  back,  a  minute 
since,  with  Mr.  Sam." 

"I  would  not  want  to  disturb  them,"  said  Mrs. 
Elphinstone ;  but  her  eyes  were  melting  and  shadow- 
ing, and  the  card  still  eluded  her  search. 

"I'd  not  wonder  if  they  was  in,  by  now,"  said 
Michael,  gaining  courage,  "in  his  Grace's  room. 
Unless  Mr.  Sam  had  gone." 

"I'd  not  wish  to  trouble  him,  in  any  case,"  said 
Lise,  wearily.  She  left  the  card.  "No,  Michael, 
I'm  a  little  tired.  I  will  wait  here." 

The  door  cracked  behind  Michael  departing, — 
sure  of  his  mission  now.  Ireland  for  ever!  Lise, 
on  the  piano-stool,  smiled  across  at  the  Duke's  por- 
trait. 


232  HATCHWAYS 

"Serve  her  right,"  she  said  suggestively.  After 
all,  had  he  not  known  the  Duchess, — well?  Better 
than  anybody? 

Lise  had  stopped  behaving  beautifully.  She  gave 
herself  a  rest.  She  opened  the  Duchess's  piano,  con- 
sidering that  her  station  in  that  household  entitled 
her  to  it.  If  it  did  not,  she  did  not  care.  .  .  .  She 
began  to  play  the  "White  Rocks,"  quietly.  Now, 
the  "White  Rocks"  was  the  elfin  air  from  the  far 
west,  which  had  first  led  Iveagh  astray. 


XIV 
SEQUEL  TO  THE  FOREGOING 

THAT  which  had  passed  between  Iveagh  and  Sam 
since  Adelaide's  public  baiting  of  him  would  be  dif- 
ficult, indeed  impossible,  for  an  ordinary  pen  to 
state.  A  constant  exchange,  a  shifting  as  it  were 
of  the  ground  of  understanding,  of  the  terms  of  their 
acquaintance,  had  taken  place;  great  sensitiveness 
sacrificed,  thrown  into  the  pool,  as  it  were,  on 
Iveagh's  side,  an  unheard-of  effort  of  comprehension 
offered  up  by  Mr.  Coverack,  before  things  between 
them  could  be  at  all  straight  again.  But  the  bond 
held,  triumphant,  unshaken,  and  the  return  to  abso- 
lutely ordinary  conditions  was  celebrated,  this  day, 
by  a  solemn  feast  after  riding  in  Wickford's  room. 
The  end  of  it  all  was,  a  kind  of  compact :  no  terms 
exactly  stated,  but  all  understood.  As  follows: 
Sam  would  keep  Iveagh's  counsel,  and  do  his  best 
for  him,  in  the  matter  of  Lise,  whatever  it  was 
Iveagh  really  wanted:  Iveagh  would,  on  his  part, 
forbear  to  let  the  Duchess  know  certain  little  pas- 

233 


HATCHWAYS 

sages,  in  recent  times,  between  Adelaide  and  Sam. 

The  last  was  highly  important,  as  Iveagh  recog- 
nised. He  granted  without  a  pang  that  Sam,  whom 
Addy  had  always  attracted,  should  still  sheepishly 
cleave  to  her,  in  spite  of  her  treatment  of  him: — 
because  he  knew  what  women  are.  He  bore  no 
grudge  to  Sam  for  it  whatever, — though  of  course 
he  bade  him,  dutybound,  look  out  for  Wick.  He 
also  gave  up,  though  more  regretfully,  the  possible 
weapon  against  his  mother  that  Adelaide's  double 
game,  flirting  with  Samuel,  presented. 

All  this  really  complicated  business  had  been  con- 
cluded, needless  to  say,  without  the  use  of  either  of 
the  ladies'  names.  Lise  had  long  been  too  dear  to 
Iveagh,  and  Adelaide  was  rapidly  becoming  too  in- 
teresting to  Sam,  for  names  to  be  at  all  in  request. 
The  pronouns  she  and  her,  in  each  case,  sufficed  the 
bargainers.  Each  supplied  the  other's  favourite 
female  name,  with  ease. 

That  Wickford  would  not  have  liked  a  feast  in  his 
room,  goes  without  saying.  All  the  dogs  were  there, 
and  he  always  tried  to  keep  his  ducal  and  literary 
sanctum  clear  of  Iveagh,  Sam,  and  the  dogs.  Any 
one  member  of  the  fraternity  separately  Wickford 
could  do  with, — so  he  patiently  explained  to  them, 
— not  the  lot.  Iveagh  alone,  Sam  alone,  Fricka  the 


SEQUEL    TO    THE    FOREGOING         235 

wolf-hound,  George  the  dachs,  or  Pat  the  terrier 
alone  respectively,  were  harmless  and  tolerable. 
They  were  even  consoling  to  ducal  and  literary  soli- 
tude at  times.  But  he  really  could  not  bear  the 
whole  Comus-rout  of  them,  Sam's  horrid  tobacco  in 
the  curtains,  and  crumbs  all  over  his  dearest  papers 
and  books.  Wick  had  made  his  room  respectable 
by  the  Oxford  standards, — not  by  the  Oxborough 
ones.  He  had  a  nice  velvet  carpet,  walnut  fittings, 
and  Mrs.  Redgate  (secretly)  had  ordered  the  cover- 
ing of  his  chairs.  Was  it  likely  he  wanted  Pat, 
fresh  from  a  rat-hunt  and  brown  with  mud,  curled  in 
one  of  them?  Why,  the  Irish  Secretary  might  be 
sitting  there  to-morrow!  He  really  thought  Iveagh 
might  understand. 

Iveagh  did,  intermittently.  He  had  a  real  regard 
for  his  brother  as  chieftain  of  the  Suirs  at  times. 
But  the  day  of  the  pact  was  an  exception, — for  one 
thing,  Wick  was  safely  away.  He  was  down  at 
Mrs.  Redgate's,  behaving  nicely,  and  seeing  to 
Iveagh's  uncles.  His  room  was  thus,  being  empty, 
at  others'  service:  to  the  true  Suir  nature,  the  mere 
fact  of  its  emptiness  proved  that.  Iveagh  and  Sam, 
albeit  intensely  curious,  avoided  reading  Wick's 
book,  sheets  of  which  lay  spread  on  the  table,  be- 
cause, before  a  book  is  printed  or  a  speech  heard,  no 


236  HATCHWAYS 

gentleman  does  such  things.  They  did  not  avoid, 
having  laid  it  aside,  setting  a  black  kettle  tempo- 
rarily where  it  had  lain;  nor  did  their  gentlemanly 
instincts  discourage  George,  who  was  always  learn- 
ing tricks  which  he  never  mastered,  from  nosing  wet 
morsels  of  much-begged  cake  about  the  velvet  floor. 
Such  trifles  they  overlooked,  in  a  crisis  of  friendship 
and  festivity:  and  Sam  paid  the  finest  tribute  pos- 
sible to  Wickford's  chairs  by  using  two  of  them — 
for  self  and  boots. 

This  was  the  intimate  occasion  which  the  foot- 
man, fresh  from  Lise  in  the  drawing-room,  inter- 
rupted. The  occasion  had  just  got  going,  when 
Michael  came.  He  stated  the  case,  as  he  knew  he 
could  to  Iveagh,  quite  clearly.  Mrs.  Elphinstone 
was  in  the  back  drawing-room,  come  to  visit  her 
Grace.  Her  Grace  happened  to  be  engaged  with 
Miss  Allgood  about  the  children's  games.  She 
would  likely  not  go  to  Miss  Lise  for  the  matter  of 
half  an  hour.  Miss  Lise  wished  no  one  disturbed, 
particularly.  She  was  playing  there  on  the  piano 
to  pass  the  time.  She  had  walked  up, — he  thought 
she  seemed  tired 

It  was  sufficient, — more  than  enough.  Both 
young  men  were  on  their  feet,  Iveagh  speechless  and 
pale  with  rage. 


SEQUEL    TO    THE    FOREGOING      237 

"Half  an  hour*?"  gaped  Sam,  who  was  also  Lise's 
old  companion.  "Well,  that's  a  queer  thing  now! 
Who's  Miss  Allgoodr 

Iveagh  said  something  about  Miss  Allgood  which 
had  far  better  not  be  repeated.  It  was  not  even 
true,  for  she  was  a  young  lady  with  nothing  against 
her,  in  life,  a  hard  student,  and  what  is  more,  she 
had  often  weary  work  with  the  Duchess.  It  is  prob- 
able she  was  more  to  be  pitied  than  blamed  on  this 
occasion:  only  Lise's  party  was  not  in  a  state  to 
regard  such  arguments,  naturally. 

"I'll  see  to  it,"  said  Iveagh  briefly  to  the  messen- 
ger. "Let  you  fetch  some  more  cream  and  so  on, — 
Fricka's  drunk  it, — I'll  see  to  the  rest." 

"Yes,  my  lord,"  said  Michael  softly,  slipped  out, 
and  shut  the  door  cautiously  behind  him.  He  al- 
ready had  some  idea,  owing  to  natural  sympathy 
and  an  intense  interest  in  his  betters'  concerns,  that 
caution  in  the  case  was  necessary.  Beyond  that 
Iveagh's  command,  however  casual,  secured  atten- 
tion, and  his  use  of  the  verb  "let"  was  individual, — 
it  simply  had  to  be  obeyed.  Anyhow,  the  Irish 
servants  respected  him  a  good  deal  more  than  Wick- 
ford:  secretly,  their  first  service  was  his.  Why,  it 
would  be  hard  to  say,  unless  that  Wickford,  at 
times,  adopted  his  mother's  kind  condescension  to- 


238  HATCHWAYS 

wards  them,  studying  their  tastes.  Iveagh  could  be 
a  horrid  tyrant, — always  had  been  capable  of  it 
from  childhood.  The  real  regard  of  Michael  and 
his  kind  for  Iveagh  dated  back  to  the  period  when 
his  royal  rages,  now  and  again,  stirred  the -house 
pleasurably  from  top  to  bottom :  at  top  and  bottom, 
rather, — since  the  Duke  and  his  back  kitchen  en- 
joyed it,  and  the  Duchess  and  her  well-trained  staff 
did  not.  We  refer  the  curious  to  M.  du  Frettay's 
profound  observations  on  types  of  aristocracy,  as 
exhibited  in  our  islands,  for  further  light. 

"Shall  I  go*?"  growled  Sam,  much  concerned  to 
stick  by  the  terms  of  the  celebrated  bargain,  what- 
ever they  were. 

"No,  you  will  not,"  said  Iveagh  evenly.  "You'll 
sit  there,  and  take  your  feet  off  the  chair,  and 
behave  as  well  as  ever  you  can,  till  I  tell  you. 
She's  Mark's  wife,  I'll  ask  you  to  remember,  and 
fond  of  him,  and  she's  used  to  having  things 
nice,  anyhow  at  Mrs.  Redgate's, — and  she  is  not 
well." 

"Lord,"  thought  Sam,  "what  a  freak  you  are," — 
but  he  followed  orders. 

"Take  that  tea-pot  out  of  the  fender,"  said 
Iveagh,  "and  put  it  where  it  ought  to  be,  and  get 
some  of  the  crumbs  away,  and  put  Wick's  writin' 


SEQUEL    TO    THE    FOREGOING      239 

things  straight  on  the  table,  and  his  book  lyin'  open 
an'  easy,  just  where  it  was." 

"What's  that  for*?"  Sam  asked,  puzzled  by  this 
last  direction.  However,  Iveagh  was  quite  sure 
about  it.  It  made  things  altogether  shades  more 
respectable  and  honourable  to  have  Wick's  statisti- 
cal book. 

"And  open  the  window,"  he  resumed  instructions, 
"and  finish  your  pipe  there  if  you  have  to,  and  turn 
the  dogs  out, — barring  Fricka  who  I  hope's  to  be 
trusted," — he  looked  at  Fricka,  who  gently  whined, 
— "and  generally  see  things  decent,"  finished  Iveagh, 
"till  I  come  back." 

So  instructed,  Sam  was  left  to  digest  his  strange 
position:  and  Iveagh  repaired  to  the  back  drawing- 
room,  whence  the  "White  Rocks"  was  dimly  steal- 
ing, a  passion  of  outraged  love  and  hospitality 
flooding  his  soul :  a  Suir  passion  of  purest  enmity  to 
Froebel  and  Oxborough  and  their  attendant  or 
mutual  usefulness.  Usefulness! — with  Beauty  de- 
serted in  the  drawing-room,  green-suited  by  the 
fairies  to  delight  them,  and  needing  her  tea!  Lise 
had  not  appealed  to  the  spirit  of  the  great  Duke's 
picture  in  vain. 

Lise  danced  home  to  Hatchways  that  night  in  the 


240  HATCHWAYS 

highest  spirits,  all  her  weariness  miraculously  done 
away.  Her  reception  by  the  Wickford  family,  she 
gave  the  company  to  understand,  had  been  a  lordly 
one, — as  indeed  it  had.  Oh  yes,  she  had  had  lots 
to  eat, — oh  yes,  the  entertainment  had  been  ade- 
quate. Why,  was  not  the  Duchess  herself  enter- 
tainment sufficiently'?  It  was  nice,  Lise  implied,  to 
feel  one  had  done  one's  duty  by  the  Duchess, — 
whether  one's  duty  by  Mark  she  did  not  say. 

"I  hope  her  Graciousness  did  not  keep  you  wait- 
ing?" said  M.  du  Frettay,  who  never — because  he 
did  not  care — got  titles  right. 

"I  hardly  noticed  it,"  said  Lise.  "I  was  playing 
on  the  piano  when  she  came  in.  ...  By  the  way, 
Ernestine,  I  quite  like  Renie  Allgood.  She  isn't 
half  a  bad  little  sort  of  girl." 

"Ah,"  said  Gabriel,  remembering.  "She  made 
one  of  you." 

"She  came  in  when  the  Duchess  did,"  said  Lise. 
That  some  forty  minutes  had  intervened  she  did  not 
say.  "Renie's  a  plain-faced  girl  and  puts  it  on,  but 
she's  well-meaning.  There  was  some  question  of 
the  revival  of  old  games  they  were  talking  of,  over 
the  tea.  I  saw  no  harm  at  all  in  it,  from  what  I 
heard." 


SEQUEL    TO    THE    FOREGOING 

"Did  you  hear  any  harm  from  what  you  saw6?" 
said  Mr.  Redgate,  picking  at  words  as  usual. 

"I  am  glad  you  sympathised  in  that,  Lise,"  said 
Ernestine.  "Gertrude  is  so  glad  to  get  musical  peo- 
ple's support."  Ernestine,  of  course,  knew  from 
Adelaide  that  the  games  matter  was  Gertrude's 
"latest," — subsequent  to  the  sand  even, — quite  the 
newest  of  all. 

"She  seemed  pleased  about  it,"  said  Lise  gaily. 
"I  called  her  Aunt  Gertrude  for  Mark's  sake  and 
she  took  it  well.  Then  I  played  some  of  the  little 
tunes,  and  Renie  sang  baby-words  to  them, — she's 
quite  a  good  little  voice.  I  can't  see  why  Iveagh 
should  be  rude  to  her " 

"Hullo,"  said  Rick,  "was  Iveagh  there'?" 

"He  and  Sam  joined  on  to  us,"  said  Lise,  "when 
they  heard  the  music.  It  was  quite  a  little  concert 
we  had.  You  can  always  get  Iveagh  with  music, — 
he's  really  very  fond  of  it, — I  often  tell  my  hus- 
band  " 

"Oh,  Lise,  Lise, — mischief,  what  have  you  been 
up  to?"  sighed  Mrs.  Redgate  in  spirit:  but  she  spoke 
no  word. 

The  next  days  were  adventurous  and  interesting, 
Lise  being  engaged  in  waiting  for  the  Indian  mail. 


242  HATCHWAYS 

She  was  also  feeling  better  for  the  home  air  of 
Hatchways,  daily  less  languid,  and  more  inclined  to 
try  her  powers.  She  wished  Mark  would  write,  of 
course,  but  in  the  interval  she  sat  for  her  portrait 
to  Miss  Ryeborn,  out  of  doors  since  the  weather  was 
agreeable,  during  the  morning  hours.  Bess  had 
been  afraid  that  sitting  would  bore  her,  but — dear, 
no,  Lise  was  not  dull !  M.  du  Frettay,  for  instance, 
slaving  at  his  aeronautic  calculations  in  the  study, 
took  a  stroll  at  least  once  during  the  morning,  to 
cool  his  brain,  and  see  how  the  orchard  sitting  was 
getting  on.  The  Duke,  going  up  to  London  duti- 
fully every  day,  called  in  for  an  orchard  interlude 
on  his  way  to  the  station.  Mr.  Redgate  was  not  too 
immersed  in  articles  to  bend  above  his  niece's  easel, 
and  chaff  the  model,  at  times.  Iveagh  was  there, 
quite  as  often  as  anybody  wanted.  He  lay  reading 
in  the  grass  unnoticed,  and  saying  no  word. 

"Now  look  here,  Lise,"  said  the  Duke,  during  a 
pause  in  Mrs.  Elphinstone's  selfless  labours,  one  fine 
morning.  "It's  no  earthly  use  going  on  like  this." 

Wickford  had  captured  her,  as  usual,  on  his  road 
to  London,  while  Bess  rested,  and  while  Bess's 
model,  immensely  pleased  with  self  and  circum- 
stances, ate  a  bun.  There  is  nothing  so  exhausting 
to  nature,  it  is  well  known,  as  sitting  for  one's  por- 


SEQUEL    TO    THE    FOREGOING      243 

trait,  and  her  appetite  was  improving:  Lise  bit  her 
bun  with  the  greatest  goodwill,  as  she  strolled  with 
the  Duke — a  pleasant  change — down  the  flowery 
path  that  leads  to  the  beehives. 

"Like  what1?"  said  Lise,  lifting  her  eyebrows. 

"You'll  make  him  as  bad  as  ever,"  said  Wick- 
ford.  "We  shall  have  it  all  over  again." 

"I  haven't  the  pleasure  of  understanding  you, 
Duke,"  said  Lise. 

"Oh  yes,  you  have.  There  are — limits,  you 
know.  We've  had  bother  enough.  You  know  per- 
fectly." 

Lise  knew,  of  course;  but  she  did  not  see  why 
Wick  should  treat  her  like  this  about  it.  Wick 
really  had  an  exceptionally  unadorned  way  of  put- 
ting things.  M.  du  Frettay,  now,  would  have 
turned  an  observation  like  that  quite  nicely,  so  that 
one  need  feel  no  faintest  nudging  of  remorse.  Lise 
determined  to  be  chilly  with  Wickford  at  once,  even 
though  it  should  be  at  the  bun's  expense. 

But  it  was  no  use.  Wickford  took  the  line  of 
the  old  companion,  and  argued  unfluently  in  that 
tone.  Lise  had  to  give  in  at  last. 

"Well,"  she  said,  with  a  naughty  glint,  "what  do 
you  want  me  to  do1?" 

"I  want  you  not  to  do,"  said  Wickford  curtly. 


244  HATCHWAYS 

"But  I'm  not  doing  anything."  She  looked 
subtle,  liquid,  in  her  manner:  and  innocent  as  the 
air. 

"Give  Miss  Ryeborn  a  chance,"  blurted  Wick- 
ford. 

"Oh,  Wick!"  Multitudinous,  etherial  reproach, 
from  every  quarter  of  the  woman's  heaven,  fell 
upon  the  blunderer.  He  flushed  up,  but  stuck  to  it. 

"I  mean  it.     That's  the  least  you  can  do." 

"You  talk  as  if  I'd  done  wrong,"  said  Lise. 

There  was  an  interval,  Wickford  perplexed.  He 
wished  to  be  just,  of  course.  If  Lise  had,  as  she 
implied,  merely  existed,  breathed  the  air  in  his 
brother's  neighbourhood.  ...  It  is  rottenly  hard  to 
know,  with  these  girls ! 

He  looked  at  her.  He  had  often  looked  at  Lise, 
in  the  old  days.  She  was  looking  sidelong  across 
him,  and  it  struck  him  she  resembled  a  fawn. 
Something  in  the  setting  of  her  eyes, — the  corners 
of  them. 

"Can't  you  play  about  with  the  Frenchman,  if 
you  need  to?" 

"WiekF 

Useless :  she  had  to  look  straight  at  last,  and  met 
his  eyes.  Nice,  honest  eyes  he  had,  with  just  the 
right  expression.  Wickford  understood  coquetry  by 


SEQUEL    TO    THE    FOREGOING      245 

nature,  made  every  allowance,  that  was  the  fact. 
Lise  knew  he  did  because — well,  they  had  tried  some 
passages  in  the  past.  Adelaide's  fault  entirely. 
He  was  tackling  her  now,  with  hopeless  unreadiness 
of  expression,  but  in  just  the  right  vein.  He  held 
her,  loosely  and  firmly  as  he  held  his  horse. 

"Are  you  going  to  beg  my  pardon1?"  said  Mrs. 
Elphinstone. 

"Not  just  yet." 

"You  needn't  think  I'm  going  to  make  bargains 
about  a  thing  like  that,"  said  Lise. 

"I  don't,"  said  Wickford.  "I  want  you  to  think 
it  out." 

"What?' 

"Think  it  out,"  said  Wickford. 

"Well,  I'm  sure !"  said  Lise  to  her  surroundings, 
which  were  the  beehives.  They  had  arrived  there. 

She  attended  to  her  bun  all  the  way  back  to  the 
orchard, — exclusively,  making  up  for  lost  time. 
Wickford  wheeled  station-ward,  when  they  reached 
the  orchard-turn.  She  took  no  notice  of  him  when 
he  left. 


XV 
CAPTURE  OF  LISE 


SIR  GEORGE  came  down  to  Holmer  for  the  week-end 
in  order  to  (as  his  mother  put  it)  see  about  Iveagh: 
and  of  course,  though  knowing  his  profound  dislike 
for  it,  the  Duchess  gave  a  party  for  him. 

The  Duchess  could  not  avoid  the  conviction  that 
it  was  good  for  George.  She  was  the  more  con- 
vinced of  it  that  Mrs.  Redgate  made,  in  spite  of 
their  recent  estrangement,  an  attempt  to  dissuade 
her.  Wickford,  it  seemed,  had  seen  a  note  from  Sir 
George  to  Mrs.  Redgate,  in  which  he  was  "hoping 
to  be  able  to  see  his  friends  and  talk  to  the  boys  on 
the  quiet,  this  time,"  and  other  hints  that  equally 
well  conveyed  his  state  of  mind.  It  was  his  usual 
state,  shy  and  retiring,  faithful  to  the  friends  he 
cared  for,  and  reckless  of  chatter  and  renown. 
Wickford,  too  evidently  urged  by  Ernestine,  tried  to 
put  a  spoke  in  his  mother's  hospitable  wheel:  and 
his  efforts  to  discourage  her  had  their  invariable 
stimulating  effect. 

246 


CAPTURE    OF    LISE  247 

Shaking  off  her  eldest-born, — a  strictly  maternal 
attitude, — the  Duchess  went  ahead  with  her  ar- 
rangements. She  planned  a  little  dinner  of  a 
dozen,  on  Saturday.  She  invited,  for  George's  sake 
and  to  silence  Wickford,  Dr.  Ashwin  of  Harley 
Street,  one  of  George's  oldest  friends, — who  refused. 
Well,  there  you  were, — one  could  do  no  more  than 
ask  the  man.  She  proceeded  to  ask  a  Bishop,  be- 
cause Bishops  in  the  nature  of  things  take  to  ex- 
plorers,— at  least  they  ought.  Disseminating  the 
true  faith,  first  the  ploughshare  and  then  the  seed, 
— she  explained  it  to  Gabriel  du  Frettay,  who 
seemed  sceptical.  She  chose  a  Bishop  who  had  been 
attached  to  Wickford's  school  a  dozen  years  back, 
and  addressed  him  as  "my  boy."  The  Duchess  was 
always  doing  things  of  this  sort,  and  then  being  sur- 
prised her  sons  were  sulky.  She  invited  Gabriel, 
because  he  knew  how  to  behave,  not  because  George 
had  known  his  father.  She  did  not  invite  Mr.  Mar- 
chant  because,  she  told  Wickford,  he  was  not  good 
enough.  Vulgarity  of  this  sort  one  may  allow  one- 
self in  a  strictly  domestic  circle.  These,  with  her 
sons  and  brother  Giles — Oliver  had  gone  at  last — 
made  six  men. 

The  question  of  women  to  match  was  more  trou- 
blesome,— one  had  to  pick  and  choose.  The  Duch- 


248  HATCHWAYS 

ess  picked  her  sister-in-law,  who  had  been  trying  for 
ages,  by  any  means,  to  entrap  Sir  George.  That 
George  had  been  trying,  all  he  knew,  to  avoid  Isabel, 
made  no  difference, — now  they  would  have  to  meet. 
She  proceeded  to  pick  Adelaide's  mother,  with  whom 
Isabel  had  never  been  able  to  get  on :  there  was  pro- 
nounced hostility  between  the  ladies.  This,  with 
dear  Adelaide  (for  Wickford's  sake)  and  herself, 
made  four. 

Two  places  were  vacant.  She  turned  over  Lise. 
She  turned,  re-turned,  and  adopted  her,  without  an 
idea  that  in  so  turning  Lise  she  was  turning  herself. 
Yet  it  was  so.  Lise,  the  naughty  sprite,  had  cap- 
tured the  Duchess :  she  assumed  and  held  her  station 
at  Holmer  in  spite  of  all.  And  how?  Hastily, — 
before  the  whole  of  our  intelligent  public  forestall 
us, — let  us  explain. 

First  then,  Lise  herself  had  done  most  towards  the 
miracle,  by  her  friendly  interest  in  Miss  Allgood's 
activities,  and  her  dainty  fashion  of  playing  the  lit- 
tle tunes.  Pardon  and  favour  crept  towards  Lise 
on  that  occasion,  and  that  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
the  Duchess's  son,  under  her  eyes,  was  attracted  as 
much  as  she  was.  It  was  still  annoying  about 
Iveagh,  of  course,  but  somehow,  Renie  and  the 


CAPTURE    OF   LISE  249 

games  stood  first.  So  many  things  had  always  been 
able  to  oust  Iveagh,  as  they  took  root  and  flourished 
in  his  mother's  active  mind.  The  question  of  Wick- 
ford  could  at  any  moment  obscure  him,  the  question 
of  any  of  the  Duchess's  "causes"  could:  the  school, 
of  course, — games  could  rout  him,  he  could  be  par- 
tially buried  in  sand.  Last  of  all  Mark,  the  dis- 
tant, omnipotent  Mark,  outweighed  Iveagh  utterly, 
as  he  outweighed  Wickford  also  at  need;  and  Mark, 
since  the  occasion  of  Lise's  call,  had  written  to  his 
patroness. 

Mark  confided  his  little  wife  to  her,  that  was 
what  it  came  to.  It  was  belated,  like  all  things  out 
of  India,  having  been  an  afterthought,  when  Lise 
had  left.  It  was  sedate,  collected,  like  Mark:  but 
he  was  none  the  less  worrying,  dreaming  over  Lise 
in  every  line  of  it:  he  was  none  the  less  secure  in 
his  assumption  of  his  Aunt  Gertrude's  motherly  in- 
terest in  her,  for  his  sake;  and  his  Aunt  Gertrude, 
so  far  as  she  was  capable  of  it,  felt  ashamed. 

That  and  the  games  together,  and  perhaps  Lise's 
own  gentleness  and  gaiety, — though  satiny-velvet 
fripperies  went  for  naught, — was  enough  to  unbend 
her  original  attitude.  She  unbent  faintly  to  Mrs. 
Redgate  too;  only  faintly,  for  we  regret  to  say,  as 


250  HATCHWAYS 

soon  as  she  really  wanted  Lise,  she  became  jealous 
of  Hatchways  for  owning  her:  which  was  highly 
undignified  and  illogical,  but  none  the  less  Oxbor- 
ough  for  that. 

There  remained  a  place  for  a  girl  at  her  table  on 
Saturday,  which  her  sons  assumed  (for  some  reason) 
Miss  Ryeborn  was  to  occupy.  Her  elder  son  let 
her  know  he  assumed  it, — and  the  Duchess  set  her 
teeth. 

"Gertrude  wants  you  for  the  week-end,  Lise," 
said  Ernestine.  "I  think  you  will  have  to  go." 

"Oh,  I  don't  want  to,  Ernestine,"  said  Lise,  bury- 
ing her  cinder-coloured  head  in  Mrs.  Redgate's  lap. 
"I  don't  want  to, — I  dislike  it.  Are  you  all  tired 
of  me  so  soon1?" 

They  were  not  all  tired  of  her  at  Hatchways, 
they  liked  her  dearly.  Even  Bess  could  not  avoid 
it,  though  Bess's  life  moved  quietly  into  the  back- 
ground to  make  room  for  Lise,  was  turning  very 
grey.  She  was  studying  Lise,  for  her  soul's  good, 
daily.  It  may  have  been  the  kitten-aspect,  but  she 
had  made  rather  a  wonderful  little  portrait,  and  it 
was  nearly  done.  Wickford,  who  watched  its  prog- 
ress, declared  his  intention  of  showing  it  to  his 
mother,  and  getting  her  to  buy  it  as  a  present  for 


CAPTURE    OF    LISE  251 

Mark.  And  if  she  did  not,  said  Wickford,  he 
would  do  so.  Mark,  when  the  worst  was  said,  de- 
served something,  for  granting  them  the  light  of 
Lise. 

"Find  me  an  excuse,  then,"  said  Lise  to  every- 
body. "I'm  not  well  particularly, — how's  that1?" 
Ernestine  shook  her  head  for  all  answer.  "Well 
then,  the  painting," — fixing  one  of  the  company. 
"You'll  want  me  sitting  all  day  of  my  last  days, 
won't  you1?"  Bess  nodded  and  smiled.  "Mention 
I'm  engaged,  Ernestine,"  said  Lise,  leaning  back 
against  her  hostess.  "I'm  under  vow,  because  of 
next  May's  Academy.  Without  all  day  of  Satur- 
day and  Sunday  morning,  there's  no  chance  of  me 
looking  my  best." 

Well,  that  was  all  very  well,  playfully:  but  Lise 
was  a  person  to  whom  play  was  apt  to  turn  earnest 
at  once,  if  her  wil fulness  was  aroused.  This,  by 
way  of  the  Froebel  System,  should  have  been  a  point 
of  sympathy  with  the  mistress  of  Holmer;  but  when 
the  particular  game  was  made  known  to  her,  the 
Duchess  did  not  find  it  so. 

During  the  interval,  George  and  the  party  loom- 
ing nearer,  it  became  increasingly  clear  to  the  Duch- 
ess that  she  must  have  Lise, — "elle  s'emballait" 
rapidly.  She  remembered  yet  another  thing, — 


HATCHWAYS 

George,  terrified  of  society  women,  enjoyed  young 
folk.  Lise  was  not  only  a  social  acquisition  of  some 
brilliance, — she  was  a  girl.  Given  a  collection 
which  includes  men  like  George,  Giles,  and  the 
Bishop,  one  had  better  have  girls.  It  affords  a  di- 
version after  dinner,  makes  something  to  look  at, 
and  keeps  them  awake. 

Wickford,  Iveagh,  and  Gabriel  quite  agreed  with 
the  Duchess  here:  only,  oddly  enough,  they  did  not 
see  the  said  girls  as  necessarily  appertaining  to  the 
Bishop,  Sir  George,  and  Sir  Giles. 

Iveagh,  for  instance,  could  have  put  his  mother's 
table  together  for  her  one-handed,  granted  the  in- 
gredients he  foresaw.  Lise  to  himself,  for  instance : 
Bess  to  Wickford:  Addy  to  du  Frettay's  able  charge: 
Trenchard  to  Mother,  whom  at  least  he  knew  and 
trusted:  Aunt  Isabel  to  the  Bishop,  who  could  talk 
her  down :  Mrs.  Courtier,  as  was  to  be  hoped,  to  the 
utter  prostration  and  finishing  of  Uncle  Giles. 

What  could  be  nicer1?  But  his  mother  did  not 
see  thus  reasonably.  Wickford,  for  instance,  as  the 
best  man  present  (deny  it  who  dared)  would  cleave 
to  Mrs.  Courtier,  a  Baron's  daughter,  the  best 
woman.  Pear  Isabel  must  have  George,  because 
she  wanted  him.  Young  Frettay,  because  of  the 
urgency  of  the  table-game,  would  conduct  herself, 


CAPTURE    OF    LISE  253 

— that  was  nicely  mixed  already.  Poor  Giles 
should  have  Lise  because  he  liked  her.  The  Bishop 
would  get  along  quite  well  with  Adelaide.  Iveagh 
— might  not  be  there  at  all,  if  they  could  not  sweep 
up  a  girl  for  him.  He  could  have  an  engagement, 
or  Ernestine,  being  prompted,  could  ask  him  down. 

Anyhow,  and  before  everything,  Lise  must  be  on 
the  scene,  about  the  place,  if  as  nothing  else,  as  a 
fireside  ornament.  Holmer  firesides  needed  to  be 
concealed  so  badly !  Since  the  Duchess  did  not  get, 
on  Friday  morning,  a  reply  in  the  form  of  full 
capitulation  from  Hatchways,  she  walked  down  her- 
self with  Adelaide  to  see  about  it. 

"The  children  are  so  happy,  Gertrude,"  was 
Ernestine's  way  of  putting  it.  "We  hoped  you 
would  not  break  us  up.  She  goes  on  Monday 
early." 

The  children! — including,  the  Duchess  supposed, 
her  hopeful  sons.  It  was  true,  Wickford  had  said 
at  breakfast  he  was  taking  the  midday  train  to  town ; 
but  with  that  painting-girl  about,  nobody  knew 
what  his  excuses  were  worth.  Since  Adelaide  was 
also  taking  the  train,  this  was  one  of  the  things  the 
Duchess  had  come  to  see  about. 

"Where  is  she?"  she  demanded,  meaning  Lise. 

"I  think  they're  all  in  the  orchard.     Would  you 


254  HATCHWAYS 

care  to  come  down  the  garden*?  Rick's  white  iris  is 
coming  out." 

Cool,  rather,  thought  the  Duchess.  A  trifle  mid- 
dle-class in  its  coolness.  It  would  have  been  better 
form  to  call  the  girl  in  to  attend  her.  However — 
she  rose. 

"I'll  go  down  there,"  she  said  drily.  "Don't  dis- 
turb yourself.  Wickford  is  walking  to  the  station 
immediately.  I'll  send  him  in  to  pick  up  Adelaide." 

Mrs.  Redgate  glanced  at  her  wrist-watch.  It 
struck  her  that  Wickford,  if  he  meant  to  walk,  was 
running  it  fine.  Still,  he  could  always  have  Rick's 
bicycle. 

"Had  you  not  better  go  on4?"  she  suggested  to 
Adelaide.  "Wick  could  catch  you  easily." 

"I  can  walk  as  fast  as  Wick,"  said  Adelaide 
grumpily.  She  had  crossed  to  the  window  in  the 
Duchess's  wake,  and  stood  there  as  though  hesitating 
whether  to  follow  her  out.  Adelaide  never  liked  to 
be  ordered  about  by  "Lady  Wick."  She  stood  on 
her  rights  there,  far-sightedly.  As  well  to  begin  in 
good  time. 

Mrs.  Redgate,  who  had  plenty  to  do,  remained 
seated  where  she  was,  and  looked  at  the  girl,  whose 
fine  vigorous  figure  seemed  out  of  keeping  with  her 
worn  and  rather  sulky  looks.  She  looked  older  than 


CAPTURE    OF    LISE  255 

she  ought  in  the  unflattering  sunlight,  even  a  little 
ill.  Ernestine,  knowing  her  temptations,  began  to 
reproach  herself  for  forgetfulness.  Adelaide  had 
not  an  easy  time  of  it  between  her  contending 
parents, — her  life  was  one  of  saving  appearances, 
the  most  wearing  life  there  is;  and  Holmer,  of  late, 
had  been  small  consolation. 

"She's  always  sending  me  about  with  him," 
jerked  Adelaide  with  temper,  her  back  turned. 
"I'm  getting  sick  of  it." 

"Well,  he  likes  being  with  you,"  said  Ernestine. 

"I'm  getting  sick  of  it,"  the  girl  repeated  in  a 
mutter.  "Why  doesn't  he  speak  out*?" 

The  next  instant,  she  regretted  saying  it.  Luck- 
ily, it  was  only  Ernestine.  She  sent  a  furtive 
glance  towards  her,  but  Mrs.  Redgate  was  still 
studying  her  watch. 

"My  hat's  in  the  hall,"  she  said.  "I'll  walk  on 
with  you,  if  you  are  sure  you  want  to  walk.  My 
cycle  is  there." 

Adelaide  wanted  to  walk.  She  walked  with 
Ernestine,  cross  for  the  first  ten  minutes,  but  coming 
round. 

"You're  breaking  Sam's  heart,  you  know,"  said 
Mrs.  Redgate,  her  first  remark. 

"It   won't   hurt   him,"    said   Adelaide,   but   she 


256  HATCHWAYS 

looked  relieved.  She  was  glad  Ernestine,  anyhow, 
had  noticed  Sam.  Presently,  having  plumed  her- 
self a  little,  she  took  Mrs.  Redgate's  arm. 

"Tit  for  tat,"  she  suggested,  with  an  uneasy 
laugh.  "Two  can  play  at  his  game."  She  hoped 
to  hear  that  Wick  had  marked  her  retaliation. 
Ernestine,  of  course,  was  "in  the  know." 

"If  you  are  flirting,"  said  Ernestine  gravely,  "it's 
very  unkind  to  poor  Sam."  (Pooh,  what  did  Sam 
matter? — said  Miss  Courtier's  expression.)  "And 
Wick  won't  like  you  any  the  better  for  it." 

"Ernestine!     What  do  you  mean*?" 

"What  Wick  wants,"  said  Ernestine  calmly,  "is 
an  apology." 

"What? — Ernestine,  old  girl,  you're  off  you're 
head."  Adelaide  was,  of  course,  the  only  person  in 
the  district  who  would  have  called  Mrs.  Redgate 
"old  girl." 

"I  am  not,"  she  answered,  "really.  I  really 
think,  if  you  want  to  be  friends  again,  that  is  your 
only  hope." 

Friends!  And  this  from  Ernestine,  who  was 
bound  to  be  "up"  in  the  Suir  boys !  It  was  a  pill  to 
swallow,  indeed. 

"I  suppose  you  mean  about  the  kid,"  said  Ade- 
laide, with  a  second  uneasy  laugh.  Owing  to  Sir 


CAPTURE    OF    LISE  257 

Giles  and  the  Frenchman,  severally,  she  had  suf- 
fered from  a  doubt  or  two,  since  that  scene  at  the 
station. 

"Yes.  Of  course  you  know  you  offended  Wick- 
ford." 

"Ernestine,  don't  talk  rot!"  Adelaide,  growing 
anxious,  hung  on  her  arm.  "Offended!  You're 
getting  as  bad  as  du  Frettay." 

It  was  news  to  Ernestine  that  Gabriel  had  fore- 
stalled her;  still,  he  had  probably  clothed  his 
friendly  hints  too  well.  Adelaide  required  naked 
statements,  in  life;  and  even  so,  her  independent 
spirit  often  qualified  them  as  "rot"  or  "rats,"  and 
refused  to  take  them  in. 

"But  I  tell  you  the  fact,"  she  said.  "Wick  was 
hurt  extremely.  Indignant — no,  offended  is  the 
word.  It's  not  the  sort  of  thing  he  is  likely  to  bear. 
How  could  you  think  it,  Adelaide?" 

"Why  not?"  the  girl  muttered,  though  she  did 
not  want  an  answer.  The  clan-loyalty  and  simple 
affection  that  bound  the  brothers,  never  concealed, 
was  the  last  thing  Adelaide  was  ever  likely  to  reckon 
upon,  concerning  them:  for  the  reason  that  she  did 
•not  wish  to  do  so.  She  did  not  care  to  look  upon 
that  side  of  Wickford;  though  it  was  true  he  had 
made  her  feel  it,  now  and  then. 


258  HATCHWAYS 

"Who  told  on  me1?"  she  said,  after  a  moody  in- 
terval. 

"But  don't  you  see,  dear,  everybody  did,  that  last 
time.  You  took  no  pains  to  be  private,  did  you? 
Iveagh's  uncle  has  never  stopped  tormenting  him, 
and  openly.  They  tease  him  about  drinking  to 
drown  sorrow,  too,"  said  Mrs.  Redgate,  pensively. 
"That  must  surely  be  you,  not  Sam." 

"Well,  he  does.     Sam  ought  to  know." 

"Well, — suppose  he  did  even.  Are  you  one  to 
talk?" 

"Drop  it,"  said  Adelaide  with  a  wince.  This  was 
really  bad  form  of  Ernestine,  she  was  going  too  far. 
She  might  be  said  to  be  intruding, — none  of  her 
business.  Adelaide  gazed  about  the  country,  dur- 
ing the  next  interval,  with  the  furtive,  stubborn  look 
Mrs.  Redgate  knew  too  well.  One's  own  secret 
temptation,  or  slavery,  in  life,  is  never  in  the  same 
category  as  other  people's.  It  is  distinguished  from 
them, — proper  in  its  place. 

"There's  no  harm  in  drinking  a  bit,"  was  Ade- 
laide's way  out  of  it.  "Dozens  of  men  do  it,  quite 
good  ones  too.  Oh,  my  Great-aunt,  you  ask 
Mother " 

Ernestine  cut  in  on  the  Great-aunt.  "You  knew 
it  was  Wickford's  special  anxiety,  when  you  picked 


CAPTURE    OF   LISE  259 

up  the  story,  and  passed  that  phrase  about.  Didn't 
you4?  M.  du  Frettay  told  me " 

"Oh,  dash!"  said  Adelaide.  "I  suppose  I  did. 
Wick's  a  little  goat.  It  was  only  rotting.  Mean 
he  minds  it — really*?"  She  clasped  the  friendly 
arm  again,  entreating  or  rather  demanding  reas- 
surance. 

"Of  course  he  minds !  Iveagh's  wildness,  his  bit- 
terness, is  not  funny  to  us, — we  cannot  think  so.  It 
is  beyond  us,"  said  Ernestine,  with  a  thought  to  the 
circus  clown.  It  is  so  hopeless  to  argue  on  the  point 
of  humour,  ever. 

"That  kid!"  muttered  Adelaide.  "I  say, — do 
you  mind,  Ernestine?" 

"I  should  have  minded  if  the  boy  had  died,  two 
summers  since  at  Oxford,  or  lost  his  reason,  as  was 
quite " 

"Oh,  rattlesnakes!"  said  Adelaide,  cordially:  and 
nipped  the  friendly  arm,  as  a  broad  hint  she  had 
had  enough  of  it.  Rats  and  rattlesnakes  was  how 
the  fair  Miss  Courtier  preferred  to  think  of  Iveagh's 
business,  exclusively.  She  could  not  change  her 
emblematic  conception  of  it,  really,  at  this  time  of 
day.  That  was  too  much  to  expect  of  anyone.  .  .  . 
All  the  same  she  decided,  before  Wickford  overtook 
them,  to  say  something  or  other  to  him:  just  enough 


260  HATCHWAYS 

to  straighten  matters,  if  not  quite  an  apology.  It 
was  distinctly  worth  it,  even  at  her  present  stage 
with  Sam,  which  Wick  hardly  realised,  as  it  hap- 
pened. Ernestine  was  right  so  far, — though  she 
was  certainly  interfering  more  than  a  little  so  to  talk 
to  her.  She  was  (in  the  expression  du  Frettay 
liked)  putting  in  an  oar. 

Ernestine,  returning  to  Hatchways  as  soon  as 
Wickford  overhauled  them,  much  feared  she  had 
put  the  oar  in  too  late  to  save  Adelaide  from  the 
rocks,  as  regarded  that  self-contained  little  person- 
age, their  noble  Duke.  She  reflected  with  sorrow 
that  she  was  late  in  the  matter.  She  had  been  so 
anxious  about  Lise,  so  troubled  over  Bess,  that  she 
had  overlooked  Adelaide  altogether.  Poor  Ade- 
laide. .  .  .  Yet  she  greatly  feared  M.  du  Frettay 
was  right,  and  her  idea  of  humour  and  Wickford' s 
could  never,  never  match.  And  if  so,  it  was  better 
to  stop  thinking  about  marrying,  really.  It  really 
was. 

ii 

We  return  to  the  Duchess. 

On  the  way  down  to  the  orchard,  the  Duchess 
stopped  by  the  white  iris.  Actually  out!  How 
did  the  people  manage  it4?  That  particular  kind 


CAPTURE    OF    LISE  261 

had  no  business  to  be  out  till  May.  The  Duchess 
was,  of  course,  something  of  a  gardener,  having 
made,  in  her  single  person,  Holmer  House.  Thus 
she  could  reckon,  almost  to  a  day,  the  gross  favourit- 
ism exhibited  by  that  flag-plant,  flowering  in  April 
at  Hatchways. 

Next,  she  passed  a  grey  kitten,  rolling  in  apparent 
delirium  among  the  bees  in  a  row  of  pale-blue  flow- 
ers. The  kitten,  inordinately  prolonged,  and  ex- 
hibiting the  wrong,  or  dappled  side  of  its  person  in  a 
flagrant  manner,  did  not  interest  the  Duchess.  The 
blue  flowers  did,  because  she  could  not  for  the  life 
of  her  remember  the  name  of  them.  It  worried  her 
all  the  way  to  the  orchard  turn. 

"Iveagh,"  she  said  in  consequence,  as  soon  as  she 
saw  him.  "What  is  that?" 

She  extended  a  blue  flower,  which  she  had  picked. 
She  had  picked  a  white  iris,  also.  Iveagh,  answer- 
ing, observed  the  fact  in  consternation.  His  mother 
had  been  taking  things,  unasked,  out  of  Mrs.  Red- 
gate's  borders ! 

"Those  are  Mrs.  Elphinstone's  iris,  M.  du  Fret: 
tay  says,"  remarked  the  Ryeborn  girl,  who  was 
painting  under  the  shadow  of  blossoms. 

"Fleur-de-lys,"  said  Iveagh  in  that  direction. 
"Ripping, — put  one  in." 


262  HATCHWAYS 

"Where  is  Lise*?"  said  the  Duchess,  having  recog- 
nised the  Ryeborn  girl;  for  the  hammock  near  the 
pair  was  empty,  albeit  faintly  swinging:  something 
had  recently  been  there.  Wickford  also  was  ab- 
sent,— nobody  present,  in  short.  The  Duchess  pre- 
pared to  go  on. 

"Mother,  look  here, — look  here,  Mother,"  said 
Iveagh,  outraged.  "You  haven't  looked,  and  it's 
gettin'  on  for  done." 

She  paused  to  glance  passingly  at  the  portrait. 
It  was  not  bad, — obviously  Lise.  It  had  her  look 
about  it.  Yes,  it  was  cleverish.  .  .  .  Iveagh, 
kneeling  at  her  side,  stared  in  silence,  eating  grass. 
Foolish  and  tiresome, — she  preferred  not  to  have 
him  near  her. 

"Go  and  find  her  for  me,"  she  said,  pushing  him 
slightly.  Strange,  the  distaste  she  felt  for  him, — 
dislike  almost, — she  dared  not  look  into  it.  It  was 
growing  daily.  She  trusted  George  would  relieve 
her  sight. 

He  was  on  his  feet  almost  as  she  touched  him; 
but  paused,  glancing  as  though  for  instruction  at 
the  girl. 

"She  went  to  fetch  her  milk,  I  think,"  said  Miss 
Ryeborn,  without  looking  up.  "Down  by  the 
kitchen, — you  will  meet  her  coming  back." 


CAPTURE    OF   LISE  263 

So  that  was  it, — a  studio  interval.  The  model 
taking  refreshment,  the  artist  free,  if  a  little  fright- 
ened. The  Duchess,  making  up  her  mind,  sat  down 
deliberately.  Her  countenance,  no  doubt,  con- 
veyed her  intentions,  for  Iveagh,  in  the  act  of  going, 
hung  on  his  heel. 

If  his  mother  was  going  to  rag  Bess  in  Wick's 
absence,  reflected  Iveagh,  it  was  as  well  somebody 
should  be  about.  There  was,  further,  the  question 
of  Lise's  portrait,  on  which  it  was  advisable  some- 
one of  experience  (in  the  Duchess)  should  keep  an 
eye.  His  mother  had  already  been  picking  things 
up  about  Mrs.  Redgate's  borders, — she  might  easily, 
unless  observed,  make  off  with  Bess's  portrait  too. 
Bess's  or  Lise's, — Iveagh  had  not  quite  determined 
the  point,  though  he  had  devoted  several  odd  half- 
hours,  of  late,  to  chasing  a  solution.  Two  girls 
were  in  it, — two  characters, — one  mirrored  through 
the  other.  To  watch  so  mixed  a  thing  as  that  por- 
trait grow  out  of  its  earliest  stages  was  fascinating : 
more,  it  was  mysterious.  Iveagh  took  to  such  mys- 
teries kindly,  dreaming  and  reading  alternately, 
those  long,  lovely  mornings  of  awakening  summer. 
At  least,  it  was  a  precious  thing. 

He  sank  down  again  in  the  long  grass  at  Bess's 
side,  a  little  nearer  than  before,  and  Bess's  blue  eyes 


HATCHWAYS 

stole  to  him  doubtfully.  Did  he,  she  wondered, 
really  mean  to  stay*?  How  naughty,  when  his 
mother  told  him  to  go, — and  how  brave !  Bess,  of 
course,  was  terrified  of  the  Duchess, — worse  than 
Lise. 

"You  paint  on  commission,  Miss  Ryeborn?"  be- 
gan the  Duchess,  settling  to  it. 

"Oh  no,"  said  Bess.  "I  paint  for  love.  I  am 
only  learning  at  present,"  she  added,  shyly. 

"I  should  say,"  said  the  Duchess,  in  an  Oxbor- 
ough  manner  of  judgment,  "you  are  well  advanced." 

"I  should  say  you're  gettin'  on,  Bess,"  said  Iveagh. 

"That  portrait  is  not  for  sale,  then,"  proceeded 
the  Duchess,  disregarding  Iveagh.  He  had  always 
been  like  that.  Of  old,  his  father  had  seen  to  him. 
Now — well,  she  left  it  to  George. 

"I  understand  from  my  son,"  she  went  on,  still 
graciously,  "that  you  might  take  offers,  if  pressed." 

"Wick  been  makin'  you  offers'?"  asked  Iveagh, 
leaning  neared.  He  whistled.  "I  say, — I  hadn't 
heard  that." 

The  corners  of  Miss  Ryeborn's  mouth  twitched, 
and  her  colour  mounted  faintly.  He  was  behaving 
very  badly,  and  had  better,  if  he  could  do  nothing 
more  useful,  go  away.  Bess  touched  the  shadows 


CAPTURE    OF   LISE  265 

on  Lise's  painted  hair,  while  she  reflected  thus,  and 
steadied  her  countenance. 

"I  told — your  son  I  would  give  it  him,"  she  said, 
avoiding,  with  great  propriety,  the  Ducal  name.  "I 
mean,  if  he  really  thinks  it  good  enough  for  Captain 
Elphinstone.  But  it  isn't  fair,"  Bess  added  lower, 
in  her  own  person. 

"Fair?"  asked  the  Duchess. 

"No.  Because  he  has  her,"  said  Bess,  "and  we 
shan't  have  anything  to  remind  us.  It  hardly  seems 
fair  he  should  have  both." 

"You're  fond  of  her,  then,"  said  the  Duchess :  her 
son  being  stationary,  watching  the  moving  brush. 

"I  don't  see  how  anyone  can  help  it,"  said  Bess. 

"She's  good-looking,  of  course,"  said  the  Duchess. 
"I  suppose  that  is  all  artistic  people  mind." 

"She  is  beautiful, — but  we  mind  about  other 
things,"  said  Bess. 

Iveagh's  eyes  had  moved  from  the  brush's  point 
to  the  hand  guiding  it.  Bess  had  a  beautiful,  capa- 
ble hand,  like  her  aunt's, — and  as  steady,  usually. 

"You're  spoilin'  it,"  he  reproached  her.  "Let  it 
alone."  Bess  removed  the  brush-tip,  and  her  hand 
dropped  beside  her.  She  sat  very  still. 

"So  you  study  character,  do  you*?"  said  the  Duch- 


266  HATCHWAYS 

ess,  condescending  anew.  "Let  us  hear  what  you 
make  of  Mrs.  Elphinstone's, — it  would  be  interest- 
ing." 

"I  shouldn't  have  thought  you  wanted  to  ask," 
said  Iveagh,  roughly,  in  the  pause. 

"That's  it,"  said  Bess,  to  shelter  him.  "I'm  so 
stupid.  There's  no  way  I  can  explain  those  things 
except  by  drawing.  Sometimes  I  get  it  then." 

"Ah,"  said  the  Duchess.  "Well,  but  you  paint 
creatures,  I  understand  from.  Ernestine.  Rather 
than  persons,  as  a  rule." 

"Yes,"  said  Bess,  recovering.  "And  people  tell 
me  there  is  only  one  kind  of  character  in  cats.  I 
can't  explain  to  them  there  are  hundreds.  I  can 
only  draw  the  difference, — and  hope  they'll  see." 

"You  take  a  look  at  her  book,"  advised  Iveagh, 
subsiding  into  the  grass.  "Characters  in  it  enough 
to  make  a  play.  I  expect  she  sees  into  us,  too, 
pretty  fairly,"  he  added  lower. 

"Why  do  you  expect  that1?"  said  his  mother 
sharply. 

"Always  sittin'  about  and  say  in'  nothing."  He 
threw  a  sly  look  sidelong.  "Paintin's  only  an  ex- 
cuse  " 

"Iveagh,  how  hateful!"  She  turned  on  him. 
"Do  you  pretend  I  spy?" 


CAPTURE    OF   LISE  267 

Used  names,  did  they*? — well! — "Don't  attend 
to  him,"  said  the  Duchess.  She  rose,  having  had 
enough  of  them.  "Ah, — there  is  Lise." 

There  was  Lise,  certainly,  hatless  and  sun- 
warmed  sweetly,  and  the  Duke  in  attendance,  carry- 
ing an  empty  milk-glass.  Lise  had  the  same  grey 
kitten  the  Duchess  had  noticed  in  the  flower-bed 
across  her  arms,  mother-wise, — the  kitten  being  still 
inverted,  languorous,  and  prolonged  inordinately. 

"Here  he  is,"  said  Lise  to  the  world.  "The  heat 
of'm,  feel, — he's  like  a  furnace."  She  thrust  the 
grey  kitten  at  Iveagh.  "You'd  say  he'd  drink  taken 
by  the  look  of'm,  but  it's  milk  at  worst.  .  .  .  Oh, 
good  morning  to  you,  Duchess.  You  don't  mind 
cats?' 

The  Duchess  could  stand  cats, — there  were  plenty 
about  at  Holmer:  though  she  had  come  upon  more 
serious  business.  The  Pickle,  right  way  up,  lay 
across  Lise  like  a  scarf  while  she  explained  it.  The 
Pickle,  drunk  with  sun  and  sleep,  and  milk,  and  the 
drone  of  bees,  was  in  a  malleable  condition,  suitable 
for  use  as  a  stage  property.  That  was  no  doubt  why 
Lise,  with  an  instinct  for  properties,  had  assumed 
him.  All  the  same,  her  pretty  dark  eyes  gazed 
across  the  Pickle's  drunken  corpse,  resting  on  the 
Duchess's  face,  attentive. 


268  HATCHWAYS 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Lise,  having  been  explained  to. 
"I  like  S'  George.  He's  a  flirt, — oh,  yes,  he  is, 
Wickford.  You  get  him  alone  and  try." 

"I  have,  but  I  never  noticed  it,"  said  Wickford, 
sitting  down  on  one  of  the  camp-stools. 

"Well,  try  again,"  said  Lise,  encouraging.  "It's 
like  this," — to  his  mother, — "for  dinner  on  Saturday, 
I  shall  be  delighted,  thank  you, — I've  got  a  frock 
that's  been  wasted,  so  far.  But  I'm  booked  to 
Ernestine  for  this  week " 

"Oh,  Ernestine  will  let  you  go,"  said  the  Duchess. 

"But  what  if  I'll  not  be  let,"  smiled  lise.  "You 
see,  I'm  not  through  with  Hatchways,  so  to  speak. 
I've  a  way  of  getting  behind  in  my  duties  always, 
leaving  things  to  the  last " 

"What  courage, — what  glorious  courage!" 
thought  Bess,  putting  in  swift  touches  to  the  por- 
trait, from  the  life,  this  time.  Bess  had  always 
known  the  Irish  were  valiant :  but  this ! 

"There's  this  picture  half-done,"  said  Lise,  re- 
draping  the  Pickle,  who  had  slumped  a  little.  "Oh, 
well,  three-quarters,  Bess.  Destined  to  me  hus- 
band, you  know, — I'd  not  dare  to  show  myself  in 
his  presence  less  than  complete.  Mark'd  never 
understand  artistic  vaguery,  would  he,  Wickford? 
He'd  expect  me  all  properly  noted  down " 


CAPTURE    OF   LISE  269 

"It  is  practically  finished,"  said  the  Duchess,  who 
of  course,  allowed  for  jesting.  In  the  lifelong  com- 
pany of  Suirs,  one  had  to  do  so.  "I  have  no  doubt 
Miss  Ryeborn  will  touch  it  up,"  she  continued,  "and 
let  us  see  it  on  Sunday  at  the  house.  Sir 
George " 

"If  she  dares!"  cried  Lise.  "Touch  up  me  fea- 
tures in  me  absence !  Excuse  me,  Duchess,  but  I've 
not  taken  to  that  as  yet,  for  all  the  chances  of  the 
Indian  climate.  I  trust  me  face  still  as  me  Creator 
made  it " 

Wickford,  the  Duchess  regretted  to  see,  was 
laughing,  on  his  camp-stool,  beneath  his  hand.  It 
was  true,  Wickford  used  improper  language  himself 
at  times.  All  the  same,  she  began  to  realise  slowly, 
looking  round  her,  that  she  was  being  resisted :  what 
is  more,  that  the  company, — children,  as  Ernestine 
rightly  called  them, — were  more  or  less  at  one,  in 
this  silly  game.  Wickford  on  the  camp-stool, 
Iveagh  in  the  grass,  that  little  silent  Miss  Ryeborn, 
eyes  lowered  demurely  as  she  worked  at  her  draw- 
ing,— could  it  be1?  The  Duchess  gathered  her 
dignity. 

"I  expect  my  turn,  Lise,"  she  remarked  dryly. 
"After  all,  Mark  is  something  to  me.  I  have  a 
letter  from  him " 


270  HATCHWAYS 

"Confiding  me?"  laughed  Lise.  "Ah,  but  that's 
like  him.  I  have  a  letter  myself,  as  it  happens,  in 
which  he  hinted  as  much.  He  wouldn't  know, 
though,  I  had  accepted  Ernestine,  would  he?  It's 
a  pity  I  have  so  little  time.  ...  By  the  way,  does 
he  say  in  yours  anything  about  this  doing  of  his,  for 
which  the  Company  praised  him?  I'm  crazy  to 
know,  and  as  usual  he  says  nothing  of  himself. 
Really,"  said  Lise,  "you'd  think  honours  descended 
by  a  chance  of  the  climate  on  Mark,  he  deserves 
them  so  little " 

"He  mentioned  it,"  said  the  Duchess. 

"To  be  sure,"  said  Lise,  "but  does  he  explain?" 
Her  dark  eyes  across  the  Pickle  were  fixed  again, 
eagerly.  She  was  not  playing  at  anything  now,  she 
wanted  to  know. 

"I'll  show  you  the  letter^if  you  come  up/'  said 
the  Duchess. 

"Oh,  that's  not  fair!" — from  both  her  sons. 
Mrs.  Elphinstone's  sallow  cheek  flushed  slightly. 

"Very  well,"  she  said  rather  quietly,  relapsing 
and  leaning  back.  "I'll  telegraph.  I  told  Ernes- 
tine I  would  this  time,  since  he's  annoyed  me.  I 
will  not  discover  my  own  husband's  doings  from  the 
papers, — nor  from  others'  letters,  if  it  comes  to  that. 
He  hates  wires  about  nothing, — but  he  shall  have  a 


CAPTURE    OF   LISE  271 

long  one.  I  hope  he'll  enjoy  it.  It'll  be  a  lesson 
to  him  to  boast  a  little  to  me,  once  for  all !" 

Iveagh  in  the  grass  had  turned,  and  was  looking 
towards  her  curiously.  He  saw  something  in  her, — 
pride,  wounded  pride  or  affection  wounded, — that 
he  had  never  seen  before.  Nor  was  it  his  mother 
who  had  hurt  her, — it  was  Mark.  He  marvelled, 
too,  what  Mark  had  done, — this  time.  .  .  .  Bess 
was  also  noting  swiftly,  delicately,  the  changes  of 
that  lovely  face:  but  her  noting  was  not  done  in 
thought.  She  had  got  the  Fitzmaurice  in  Lise,  and 
was  filling  it  into  the  painted  character,  while  yet 
she  remained  in  the  mood.  Her  watery  nature 
never  tarried  in  one  mood  long. 

"Blessed  baby !"  said  Lise,  kissing  the  Pickle,  who 
was  sleeping.  "Excuse  me,  company, — he's  so  nice 
to  hold.  .  .  .  Aunt  Gertrude,  look  here.  I'll  do 
your  dinner  and  the  night, — a  bargain.  That'll 
give  me  good  time  to  flirt  with  S'  George.  Sunday 
I'll  come  back  here,  to  Ernestine.  The  last  Sunday, 
I  could  not  leave  her  in  the  lurch.  If  you  had  an 
idea  what  she  has  done  for  me " 

The  Duchess  had  no  idea,  nor  desired  to  have. 
She  was  growing  incensed,  at  such  absurd  behaviour. 
What  did  the  girl  think  she  was,  anyhow,  to  treat 
her  and  her  serious  invitation  like  this"?  That  the 


272  HATCHWAYS 

invitation  crossed  Mrs.  Redgate's,  trespassed  on  it, 
the  Duchess  conveniently  forgot,  as  she  forgot  she 
had  refused  Lise  in  the  original  instance. 

"You're  poachin',  Mother,"  said  the  Duke  aside, 
in  the  tennis-player's  term.  It  made  her  angrier  yet 
to  be  so  prompted, — for  of  course  she  poached! 
Oxboroughs,  in  our  records,  have  always  poached 
upon  their  neighbours'  rights.  That  Hatchways 
land  was  a  freehold  for  centuries  past,  had  at  many 
times  annoyed  the  Duchess.  That  Ernestine  was 
a  freehold,  even  more  a  pride  of  our  present  state, 
— sister  in  spirit  to  Squire  Hampden,  right  off-shoot 
of  the  Commons'  long  strife  in  our  noble  history, — 
she  forgot  whenever  she  could. 

"You'd  better  go  in,  Wickford,"  she  said,  being 
annoyed  with  him.  "You're  keeping  Adelaide." 

He  rose,  at  the  reminder,  with  a  glance  at  his 
watch,  but  he  lingered  still.  Wickford  felt  the 
battle  approached  its  climax.  Lise  was  valiant,  cer- 
tainly, but  she  was  not  strong.  Iveagh  was  hardly 
to  be  trusted,  in  this  company.  Moreover,  Wick- 
ford had  an  idea  his  mother  would  be  driven  to  hit 
beyond  Lise  very  shortly.  Mrs.  Redgate's  repre- 
sentative was  there,  after  all,  present  to  all  their 
consciousness  in  look,  and  bearing,  and  tranquil  ab- 
sorption in  her  private  work.  Further  Addy  was  a 


273 

good  walker, — in  short,  the  Duke  gave  himself  five 
minutes  longer  to  see  fair  play.  He  little  thought 
to  be  himself  included. 

"I  couldn't  think  of  making  bargains  of  any  sort," 
his  mother  was  saying.  "I'm  a  little  tired  of  non- 
sense, Lise.  Just  tell  me  what  you  mean  to  do, — 
I  can't  stay  playing  all  the  morning."  She  was 
treating  Mrs.  Elphinstone  as  a  girl  again, — first  sign 
of  vexation, — one  to  Lise ! 

"I'm  thinking  hard,"  said  Lise,  with  the  greatest 
good-humour.  "There's  really  only  one  other  way 
I  can  see  of  it,  Aunt  Gertrude,  that  would  suit  all 
me  obligations,  and  that " 

"Well*?"  said  the  Duchess  patiently. 

"That  is  that  Bess  should  come  up  with  me  on 
Saturday.  Then  we  could  paint  in  peace,  see  our 
friends  on  the  spot,  and  dine  in  comfort  afterwards." 

"Ripping!"  from  both  the  Duchess's  sons.  The 
proposal  seemed  to  be  popular,  with  the  gentlemen. 
Bess  herself  moved  and  coloured,  laying  down  her 
brush.  Like  the  Duke,  she  had  not  expected  to  be 
comprised  in  the  combat.  She  thought  she  had  had 
her  share. 

"Since  she  is  dining  already "  proceeded  Lise. 

"Excuse  me,"  said  the  Duchess. 

"Well,  is  she  not?"     Lise  was  held  up.     "I'm 


HATCHWAYS 

sorry, — I'm  dreaming.  I  thought  Wickford 
said " 

"He  had  no  business  to."  Greatly  put  out,  the 
Duchess  rose.  Things  altogether  were  getting  be- 
yond her. 

"I  ask  the  company's  pardon,"  said  the  Duke, 
laying  a  competent  grasp  on  things,  as  he  always  did 
so  soon  as  his  mother  showed  a  strain.  Bess  had 
also  arisen  frightened.  "My  mistake  only, — it's 
true  I  had  no  absolute  authority.  .  .  .  Only  what- 
ever I  did  or  did  not  say,  Mother,  Miss  Ryeborn 
comes  to  us  now.  We  shall  be  extremely  happy  to 
see  her " 

"Go  it!"  thought  the  born  rebels,  Iveagh  and 
Lise. 

"Afterwards,"  said  the  Duchess,  half-turning. 
"I  cannot  change  the  length  of  my  table — even  for 
you." 

"There's  room  at  my  table,  I  hope,  for  my 
friends,"  said  Wickford,  his  aspect  changing 
slightly. 

"You  really  have  such  a  number,"  said  his 
mother,  audibly.  She  prepared  to  go. 

"Mother,  I'll  trouble  you — !"  cried  Wickford, 
furious :  and  broke  off,  every  atom  of  expression  fad- 
ing from  his  face.  He  was  holding  in  the  Suir 


CAPTURE    OF    LISE  275 

temper  with  both  hands :  Bess,  had  she  been  capable 
of  comparisons,  would  have  been  inevitably  re- 
mined  of  "that  book, — you  know," — Sir  Guy  of 
sainted  memory.  The  heir  of  Wickford  was  liter- 
ally rigid  with  the  strain,  and  quite  incapable, — alas 
for  those  who  had  pinned  their  hopes  to  him ! 

"Don't  cry,"  said  Iveagh,  swift  and  low,  kneeling 
up  in  the  grass  at  Bess's  side.  He  saved  the  paint- 
ing with  a  clever  snatch,  for  she  was  reckless  of  it. 
There  was  a  moment  of  really  painful  suspense, 
those  that  had  pinned  their  hopes  to  her,  in  turn, 
fearing  that  she  must  give  way.  But  Bess  did  not. 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  said  gently,  in  Wickford's  direc- 
tion. "You  are  kind.  I  can't  anyhow,  as  it  hap- 
pens. I  am  going — I  promised — to  help  Irene  with 
the  children's  drawings  on  Saturday  night." 

First-class, — could  not  be  bettered !  Iveagh,  still 
guarding  the  portrait,  turned  inviting  eyes,  to  his 
mother.  Now  then — 

"I  am  sure  we  regret "  began  the  Duchess, 

quite  mechanically.  She  found  she  had  to  say  it, 
for  she  was  unhappy, — shaken.  She  had  clashed 
badly  with  her  son  before  the  world,  which  hurt  her 
pride,  maternal  and  other.  She  was  rather  white 
in  consequence.  She  hesitated  a  moment  before  the 
girl's  aspect,  as  Bess  faced  her  gravely, — so  like 


276  HATCHWAYS 

Ernestine.  Then  she  turned  about,  and  moved 
away  towards  the  outer  gate,  by  the  orchard  path. 

Victory  to  the  rebel  horde! — only  one,  the  latest, 
had  been  wounded. 

"I  b — beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Ryeborn,"  said 
Wickford,  recovering  from  the  awful  effort  of  his 
self-control.  "And  I  beg  your  aunt's.  I  lost  my 

temper.  Of  all  b — beastly "  Whereupon  his 

Grace  choked,  and  went  off,  in  the  other  direction, 
to  Adelaide. 

"She's  crying,  Lise,"  appealed  Iveagh,  indignant. 
He  had  managed  last  time  his  mother  hit  a  girl. 
But  what  could  a  man  do  now? 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Elphinstone,  slowly  reviving 
out  of  her  unusual  stupor.  "If  that's  not  the  sweet- 
est lie  I  ever  heard !  And  using  Renie,  of  all  people 
on  this  dear  earth,  to  do  for  her!" 

With  which  Lise  and  the  Pickle  combined, — even 
as  one  individual, — fell  into  Bess's  arms. 


XVI 
INCLUSION  OF  SIR  GEORGE 

"I  LOVE  her,"  said  Lise  to  Ernestine,  that  evening. 
"It  was  the  way  she  said  it,  you  ought  to  have  heard. 
It's  not  as  if  she  takes  naturally  to  untruth, 
either " 

Mrs.  Redgate's  expression,  dimpling  a  little,  ad- 
mitted it.  The  Ryeborns  had  not  that  pure  relish 
for  romance  as  such  that  distinguished  the  Fitz- 
maurice  family.  They  might  be  called  sticklers  for 
the  stiffer  Puritan  virtues,  since  they  hailed  from 
the  north. 

"Don't  you  laugh  at  me,"  cried  Lise,  "when  I'm 
confessing." 

"Are  you^" 

"To  be  sure.  I'm  coming  on  to  it.  I'm  going 
back  on  my  ways,"  announced  Lise,  "from  this 
minute  onward.  Indeed,  I've  begun  already,  if  you 
knew.  Ever  since  Mark  wrote  I've  been  thinking 
of  it — I  can't  imagine  why  I  did  not  sooner " 

"Thinking  of  what?"  said  Ernestine.     The  girl 

277 


278  HATCHWAYS 

at  her  knee — Lise  was  sitting  on  the  floor — was 
silent. 

"I'm  not  good,  you  know,  by  nature, — "  she  be- 
gan again. 

"Good  enough,"  said  Ernestine. 

"No — Wickford  beats  me.  Oh,  dear  life,  his 
face  was  like  a  play !"  She  slipped  from  strict  con- 
fession into  mirth,  remembering  it.  "I  can't  but 
think,  Ernestine,  if  Wick  hit  out  at  his  mother  once 
he'd  be  the  better  for  it.  However,  that's  neither 
here  nor  there " 

"He's  got  to  live  with  her,"  said  Ernestine. 

"Yes,  that's  the  practical  view,"  said  Lise.  "Go 
on  stroking  my  hair,  that's  what  Mark  does  some- 
times." She  shut  her  eyes.  "Ernestine,  to  resume, 
I  am — not — good.  Now  it's  said  there's  no  gain- 
saying it.  I'd  not  considered  enough  when  I  came 
here.  Wick's  in  the  right  of  it, — there  are  times 
when  it's  best  to  think  ahead.  Now,  for  want  of 
doing  my  consideration  in  time,  I've  got  to  go  back 
on  my  ways,  and  that's  difficult."  She  put  her  little 
hands  across  her  face. 

"Is  it  really  necessary,  do  you  think?"  said 
Ernestine.  It  seemed  so  absurd,  somehow,  for  Lise 
to  go  back. 

"Yes,    I'm    going    to, — don't    you    disturb    me. 


INCLUSION    OF    SIR    GEORGE        279 

There's  only  one  way  to  do  it  too,  to  my  seeing," 
said  Lise.  "And  that's  to  show  him  my  devotion 
to  Mark." 

"Lise !" 

For  she  had  broken  into  tears.  She  had  long 
been  wanting  to  abandon  herself  on  this  subject. 
She  had  come  near  it,  again  and  again,  during  these 
evening  interviews,  but  she  could  not.  The  pro- 
found reticence  of  her  race,  that  lies  immediately 
behind  its  surface  fluency,  withheld  her.  Of  the 
things  that  matter  in  life,  it  is  all  those  people  can 
do  to  speak  at  all.  Lise  could  have  flickered,  chat- 
tered about  her  relations  with  Mark  forever,  mer- 
rily, mockingly,  half  bitterly  as  she  had  done  that 
morning:  but  it  took  the  supreme  effort,  even  with 
a  woman, — even  with  this  woman, — to  give  them 
away. 

And  yet  there  was  no  transgression  "in  it," — she 
had  given  all  she  could  find  in  her  nature  to  Mark, 
and  there  was  much.  It  was  simply  the  fact  of 
difference  discovered,  irremediable,  that  hurt  her 
affectionateness  profoundly.  Not  once,  but  many 
times  he  had  wounded  her,  till  it  became  just  too 
much,  in  the  last  letter,  to  be  borne. 

Ernestine,  greatly  touched  to  be  trusted  at  this 
stage,  soon  reached  the  bottom  of  it.  Of  course 


280  HATCHWAYS 

there  was  difference, — how  could  it  be  otherwise1? 
And  of  course  Lise  had  thought  that  out,  long  before 
her  companion  Wickford  suggested  that  she  should 
do  so.  And  of  course — so  naturally — the  renewal 
of  Iveagh,  the  sight,  sound,  and  feel  of  him,  ardent, 
supple,  and  responsive,  had  hammered  in  that  dif- 
ference, cold  into  Lise's  soul.  .  .  .  What  a  torment, 
thought  Ernestine,  is  brain,  real  logic,  in  a  woman! 
She  put  Adelaide,  and  Adelaide's  confidence,  often 
beside  this  girl,  as  the  "confession"  proceeded,  torn 
out  of  her,  no  truth  spared,  both  little  hands  wrung 
with  the  strain.  Adelaide,  of  course,  with  a  little 
tempting,  a  little  spurring,  would  have  told  anybody 
anything.  It  would  have  dropped  out — dripped, 
as  Ivragh  said — and  Adelaide,  for  all  her  restive 
vanity,  been  unaware  of  the  real  betrayal.  Ade- 
laide was  always  betraying,  the  precious  and  worth- 
less alike  which  she  happened  to  be  holding,  having 
no  power  to  range  those  possessions  of  the  spirit,  and 
to  keep  control. 

Women  perhaps  more  than  men  store  this  spir- 
itual knowledge.  They  are  not  vessels,  they  are 
caskets  for  the  truths  of  life,  with  a  constant  chance 
to  sort,  store,  and  give  away.  To  throw  away  too, 
for — with  respect  to  M.  du  Frettay's  probable  senti- 
ments,— all  truth  is  by  no  means  worth  treasuring. 


INCLUSION    OF    SIR    GEORGE        281 

Ernestine  stored  like  a  good  housewife,  orderly  and 
attentive:  she  gave  perhaps  too  cautiously,  and 
guarded  for  her  musing  too  much.  Lise  had  a  few 
jewels  of  great  worth  she  clung  to,  and  tossed  the 
rest  of  her  glittering  dust  about  the  world.  Ade- 
laide had  lost  most  of  her  possessions,  or  tarnished, 
or  borrowed  for  the  moment's  need.  She  was  very, 
very  denuded,  for  a  rich  girl, — so  Ernestine  had 
thought  that  morning. 

And  Lise  was  rich :  for  she  had,  in  spite  of  all,  the 
love  and  troth  of  a  good  man.  She  knew  it. 

"He  loves  me,  he  does,"  she  sobbed,  "and  I  am 
a  wretch  to  talk  like  this.  I'll  never  forgive  myself, 
once  I  get  to  the  end  of  it.  It's  beautiful,  quite, 
how  he  looks  at  me,  when  he's  sure  I'm  not  attend- 
ing. It's  only  he  will  not — will  not  show  me  the 
best  of  him,  when  I  know  it's  there!  I  ought  to 
be  content  with  knowing  it,  ought  I  not,  Ernestine? 
If  ever  he  lost  his  head  a  little, — if  ever  he  boasted, 
or  sulked,  or  swore  at  me,  or  stopped  considering, 
— or  kissed  my  shoe  as  Iveagh  did  in  the  garden, 
the  night  I  told  him  I'd  promised  myself  away." 
She  shivered  from  head  to  foot,  her  fingers  wrung, 
with  sheer  longing  for  that  remembered  tenderness. 
"But  that's  so  degrading  to  a  man — a  real  man — is 
it  not,  Ernestine4?" 


282  HATCHWAYS 

"Surely  not, — your  shoe,"  thought  Ernestine,  but 
she  did  not  say  it.  It  was  not  the  moment,  clearly, 
to  flatter  Lise.  She  could  see  her,  in  fancy,  flinging 
herself  at  Mark  again  and  again,  baffled  every  time 
by  his  foresight,  "consideration,"  his  excellent  self- 
effacement,  his  fine  cool  front.  .  .  .  Perhaps,  after 
this  separation,  there  was  hope  of  more  from  Mark : 
not  to  mention  that  with  Lise  imploring  like  this  at 
the  altars  of  Nature,  Nature  might  step  in.  She 
was  so  much  the  better  for  her  stay  in  Eng- 
land. .  .  . 

Lise,  led  on  to  confidence,  told  her  one  or  two  of 
her  husband's  "doings,"  extracted  with  pain  from 
him  and  others, — more  from  others  than  from  him. 
Mrs.  Redgate  smiled  listening,  seeing  her  dark  eyes- 
shimmer  like  stars, — there  was  a  nobleness  in  both, 
well-matching;  and  at  once,  rummaging  in  her 
museum  of  useful  memories,  produced  other  in- 
stances of  Mark.  It  was  easy,  for  there  were  heaps 
of  them,  ridiculously  many,  once  collected  and  built 
up.  Wickford,  half  mocking,  half  admiring,  had 
told  her  some.  Gertrude  had  told  her  plenty,  sol- 
emnly. Sir  George 

"Oh,  I'm  glad  to  be  seeing  S'  George,"  said  Lise 
contentedly.  "There's  a  man  I  like!  I  was  not 
specially  interested  in  Captain  Elphinstone,  Ernes- 


INCLUSION    OF    SIR    GEORGE        283 

tine,  I  may  mention,  when  I  last  came  across  him. 
That  is,  I  was  getting  curious  in  my  fashion  about 
the  Duchess's  young  man,  but  not  enough  to  make 
indecent  enquiries.  Still,  I  had  a  notion  even  then 
S'  George  knew  a  thing  or  two " 

"He  knew  him  better  than  anybody,"  said  Ernes- 
tine, "at  one  time,  when  the  Captain,  first  went  out, 
— when  he  lost  half  his  bridge  in  the  flood  in  Kash- 
mir." 

"It  was  somebody  else's  bridge,"  said  Lise, 
hastily.  "I  assure  you,  that  was  not  Mark's  fault, 
— I  know  about  this.  The  good  people  despatched 
him  as  usual  to  make  the  best  of  a  bad  job.  Talk 
of  silk  purses,  the  things  he's  had  to  do, — shameful 
sin  it  is  not  to  give  fresh  work  to  such  a  worker,  but 
that's  the  world!  Original  genius,"  asserted  Lise, 
"muddles  things  up,  and  the  workers  put  it  straight 
again.  The  man  who  invented  that  bridge  died 
young,  Mark  said, — the  gods  wanted  him.  But  the 
Government  wanted  Mark.  .  .  .  Well,  what  are 
you  laughing  at,  it's  the  sober  truth  I'm  telling  you." 

"Please  go  on  with  the  truth,"  said  Ernestine. 

"Well,  so  he  had  barely  time  to  think  of  planning 
his  purse,  the  poor  boy,  when  the  river  came  down 
and  carried  off  the  sow,  I  mean  the  foundations.  So 
there  he  was.  And  he  was  rightly  puzzled  what  to 


284  HATCHWAYS 

do,  since  it  flooded  out  his  quarters  simultaneously, 
and  washed  most  of  the  works  away.  So  he  spent 
his  time  piling  coals  of  fire  on  the  people's  heads 
(which  is  his  habit)  by  saving  the  cattle  and  stock." 

"Not  only  the  cattle,"  said  Ernestine. 

"And  the  mothers  and  babies,"  said  Lise,  "but 
that's  by  the  way,  for  Mark."  Her  eyes  glimmered 
for  a  little.  "Ernestine,  I  hope  you  see  how  essen- 
tially unimportant,  compared  with  Government 
heads  of  cattle,  the  mothers  and  babies  are1?" 

"Very  well,  for  the  present,"  said  Ernestine. 

"We  do  not  mention  them,  being  Mark,"  said 
Lise,  cuddling  down  her  cendre  head. 

"We  do,  being  Sir  George,"  said  Mrs.  Redgate. 
"I  have  heard  him  mention  them  very  eloquently." 

"Have  you*?  Now  that's  remarkable."  An- 
other interlude  of  thinking  it  out.  "Very  well — 
listen — I  will  get  him  to  do  so,  to-morrow  night. 
He  shall  tell  them  how  Mark  fought  with  the  river 
in  Kashmir,  saving  the  whole  population  complete 
and  single-handed  when  he  was  no  more  thin 
Iveagh's  age — well,  hardly.  And  if  the  moral 
needs  pointing  more,"  vowed  Lise,  "I'll  do  it  me- 
self." 

This  was  her  plan,  as  anyone  knowing  her  might 
have  expected.  Ernestine  was  only  afraid  she 


INCLUSION    OF    SIR    GEORGE        285 

would  go  too  far,  once  launched  on  the  interesting 
course.  Lise  was  tasting  for  the  first  time  the  bitter 
joys  of  the  penitentiary,  quite  new  to  her  probably. 
It  is  not  entirely  devoid  of  dramatic  savour,  the  peni- 
tent's attitude,  and  it  is  a  pity  not  to  test  its  possibil- 
ities to  the  uttermost,  whilst  so  righteously  engaged. 

Besides,  she  needed  in  any  case  some  plan  of 
moral  support, — some  general  line  of  campaign,  for 
her  evening  at  Holmer.  A  Fitzmaurice  liked  to 
look  forward  to  any  kind  of  warfare,  social  or  other- 
wise. Lise  was  certain  the  Duchess,  left  to  herself, 
would  make  that  dinner  as  dull  as  ditchwater:  and 
her  spirit  went  feeling  for  the  possible  elements  of 
outbreak  immediately.  Iveagh,  she  knew,  would 
break  out,  or  break  up,  at  a  touch  from  her :  interest- 
ing knowledge,  though  painful,  since  it  hinted  her 
reproach.  It  had  been  a  question  to  Lise's  gentle 
spirit,  for  some  time,  which  it  was  best  to  do  for 
him.  Now  Wick,  and  Bess,  and  Ernestine,  and 
Mark  (by  sedulous  revival  and  restoration)  urged 
her  to  break  up  Iveagh:  to  assume  the  wifely  pos- 
ture, poise  the  spear,  and  shiver  him,  once  for  all. 

Well,  dared  anybody  assert  Mrs.  Elphinstone  was 
not  at  liberty  to  do  this,  if  she  would*?  She  must 
do  something  for  Ernestine,  and  Bess,  whom  she 
loved,  before  she  left.  The  Holmer  dinner  (else 


286  HATCHWAYS 

as  dull  as  ditch  water)  was  just  a  timely  occasion  for 
a  wifely  gesture.  Armed  with  Mark  and  the 
mother  and  baby,  clad  in  her  nicest  clothes,  with 
"S'  George"  to  assist  the  proceedings,  she  would 
simply  walk  over  Iveagh,  and  leave  him  there. 

Ernestine  saw  the  plan.  She  longed,  in  the 
sensible,  sensitive  depths  of  her,  to  beg  Lise,  with 
the  great  power  she  wielded,  to  spare  the  boy.  She 
felt  the  other  way,  hers,  of  slow  remedy  and  natural 
growth  was  best.  But  there  is  no  warring  with 
natures,  none.  She  left  Lise  to  her  nature, — her 
"natural"  as  M.  du  Frettay  called  it, — which  was 
a  very  sweet  one.  She  only  went  to  bed  reflecting 
how  unfair  the  gifts  to  women  are;  that  Adelaide, 
needing  to  mate,  and  to  make  a  higher  grade  than 
Sam,  should  struggle  in  vain  for  the  remotest  portion 
of  that  captivating  power;  and  that  Lise  should 
suffer  and  make  suffer,  in  spite  of  her  own  gentler 
wish,  settled  as  she  really  was  in  life  and  spirit, 
through  having  too  much. 

"Yes, — yes,"  said  Sir  George  to  Wickford,  who 
travelled  down  with  him  on  Saturday:  assenting 
and  weighing  in  one,  at  internals,  as  a  good  phy- 
sician does. 

"Just  so, — yes,"  he  said  to  Wickford  and  Gabriel 


INCLUSION    OF    SIR    GEORGE        287 

alternately,  as  they  walked  up  with  him  from  Hol- 
mer  station,  one  on  each  side.  They  discussed,  shot 
remarks  at  one  another  across  him,  they  rotted  too, 
— it  pleased  him  to  see  the  friends  they  were.  He 
clasped  Gabriel's  arm  and  not  Wickford's,  but  that 
was  not  favouritism, — it  was  because  Gabriel  in- 
clined to  go  too  fast.  Mentally,  for  Wickford,  of 
course:  physically,  for  himself,  Sir  George  could 
have  kept  pace  with  six  of  him.  He  remained,  de- 
spite his  long  London  sojourn,  in  splendid  fighting 
form. 

"But  he's  better,  the  boy,"  he  said  at  last.  "He 
must  be  better,  for  you  to  talk  so  of  him.  .  .  .  Ah, 
you  never  saw  him  at  the  worst," — he  spoke  to  his 
left-hand  neighbour.  "We  were  anxious  for  a  bit, 
weren't  we,  Wick*?  It  was  a  bad  age, — a  very  bad 
age." 

"He's  certainly  better,"  said  Wickford.  "He's 
not  talked  rot  or  used  language — real  language — 
for  quite  a  time.  He  still  slangs  the  animals  horrid, 
Tim  says,  but  that's  more  hopeful " 

"I'll  give  him  animals  to  slang,"  said  Sir  George 
pensively,  "if  he  comes  with  me.  Not  so  easy  to 
be  revenged  on,  either.  .  .  .  You  were  saying, 
Wick?" 

"Fleas?"  asked  Gabriel,  interested. 


288  HATCHWAYS 

"Far  worse,"  said  Sir  George.  "Things  you  nice 
young  men  never  dreamed  of.  Sorry,  Wick." 

"He's  still  off  and  on  about  going,"  said  Wick- 
ford.  "He's  days  when  his  one  desire's  to  get  rid 
of  us  all, — wish,  all  right,  du  Frettay.  That's  my 
public  stop,  I  use  it  sometimes  to  Mother.  Now 
don't  interrupt  again,  because  there's  something  I'm 
trying  to  say." 

"Don't,"  advised  Gabriel  in  the  next  interval. 

"Don't  fight,  boys,"  said  Sir  George,  in  the  next. 

"He  puts  me  out  by  naggin'  at  my  wordin',"  ex- 
plained Wickford.  "On  my  honour,  I  believe  he 
thinks  he  talks  English  better  than  me " 

"I,"  said  du  Frettay  softly.  The  Duke  pro- 
ceeded. 

"What  I  mean  is  this.     Mrs.  Redgate " 

"To  be  sure.     What  of  her*?"  said  Sir  George. 

"Well,  she  says  it's  only  his  stinkin'  pride  now 
that's  detaining  him.  He's  got  an  idea  we're  send- 
ing him  for  his  good;  well,  at  his  worst,  of  course, 
that  made  him  want  to  go  to  the  bad  to  pay  us 
out " 

"Oh,  come,  come,"  said  Sir  George.  "He  doesn't 
treat  you  like  that." 

Wickford  paused  and  coloured.  He  had  said 
"we"  for  his  mother,  of  course,  in  du  Frettay's  pres- 


INCLUSION    OF    SIR    GEORGE        289 

ence.  Now  he  wondered  if  he  should  have  attacked 
the  subject  at  all.  So  doubting  and  debating,  he 
was  rapidly  dropping  into  voicelessness,  when  Ga- 
briel, from  the  other  side,  took  up  the  tale. 

"He  only  wants  anyone  he  trusts  to  assure  him 
there  are  heaps  of  things  he  can  do,"  he  said  rapidly. 

"Is  that  for  me?"  asked  Sir  George.  "But  you 
know,  Gabriel,  I  am  not  so  sure  of  it." 

"Well,  let  him  know  that,  sir,  and  he's  finished," 
said  du  Frettay.  "He'll  never  stir,  if  you  go  to 
take  him  on  a  convalescent  trip  or  a  Grand  Tour  to 
change  the  scenery,  believe  me.  He'd  sooner 
change  the  scene  here,  once  for  all,  with  a  shot 
through  his  head." 

"Does  he  know?"  signalled  Sir  George  to  Wick- 
ford. 

"Not  unless  the  boy  told  him,"  said  Wickford 
beneath  his  breath. 

Du  Frettay  glanced  at  them  both  bright-eyed,  but 
offered  no  question.  He  soon  looked  back  at  the 
sky,  as  was  his  habit,  when  walking.  He  had  no 
wish  at  all  to  interfere  with  experts  in  any  subject, 
— the  sky  sufficed  his  needs. 

"You're  a  bright  lad,"  said  Sir  George,  taking 
hold  of  his  arm  again.  "And  I  wish  to  goodness 
you'd  come  along  yourself,  and  learn  your  own 


290  HATCHWAYS 

planet  before  you  start  on   the  atmosphere " 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Gabriel,  without  lowering  his 
eyes. 

"What  things  do  you  think  Iveagh  can  do.  Can 
you  tell  us  any4?" 

"He  can  shoot  straight,"  said  the  Duke. 

"Pfui!"  said  Gabriel.  "I  am  alluding  to  his 
head  at  present,  not  his  power  of  emptying  other 
people's.  Animals,  pardon " 

"People,"  admitted  Sir  George,  "at  times." 

"Tiens!  Then  you  shoot  the  German  officials'? 
I  often  wondered  how  you  really  got  round  them, 
in  some  of  your  books.  .  .  .  Sir-George,  listen! 
Iveagh  can  do  heaps  of  things.  He's  a  head  for 
figures  like  few  I've  found.  He  notices  all,  when 
he  seems  most  sleepy.  He's  the  eyes  of  a  cat,  and 
the  ear  of  whatever-it-is,  and  he  draws  ele- 
gantly  " 

"Draws'?" 

"To  be  sure.  Accurate  drawing,  not  your  artistic 
splashing  about.  He  can  draw  what  he  sees,"  said 
Gabriel  with  a  reminiscence,  "not  what  he  thinks 
you  thought  he  was  going  to  see " 

"I'll  set  Miss  Ryeborn  on  you,"  said  Wickford. 

"Who's  Miss  Ryeborn'?"  said  Sir  George. 

"She  doesn't  matter,"  said  Gabriel. 


INCLUSION    OF    SIR    GEORGE        291 

"Oh,  doesn't  she!"  said  the  Duke. 

"Sir-George!  Do  stop-him-off !  I'm  talking. 
He's  jealous  of  my  facts,  and  wants  to  drown  them 
in  sentiment " 

"I'm  not  jealous,"  said  Wickford,  turning  very 
red. 

"All  right."  Sir  George  laughed,  and  got  hold 
of  Wickford's  arm  in  turn.  "We're  neither  of  us 
jealous,  but  really  for  an  outsider  he  knows  rather 
much." 

"He's  staying  with  Mrs.  Redgate,"  said  Wick- 
ford.  They  all  walked  on  for  a  time,  and  felt  bet- 
ter by  degrees.  It  was  not  an  easy  subject,  of 
course,  to  treat  ensemble. 

"Enfm "  said  Gabriel. 

"Anyhow,"  said  Wickford,  "there  we  are.  The 
kid's  no  fool,  is  what  du  Frettay  means,  though  he 
may  like  to  appear  one.  Of  course,  along  of  du 
Frettay,  he  may  not  have  chosen  to,  I  can't  say.  I 
always  supposed  du  Frettay  picked  Iveagh  out  be- 
cause he  said  least  of  us " 

"You  may  go  on,"  said  Gabriel,  studying  the  sky. 

"Thanks.     What  are  you  looking  at"?" 

"He  thinks  we  thought  he  was  going  to  see  an 
aeroplane,"  said  Sir  George.  "Get  on,  Wick, 
really:  you'll  never  be  done." 


292  HATCHWAYS 

"I  can't  somehow,  when  he's  listening.  .  .  . 
Iveagh's  a  lot  cleverer  than  I  am,"  broke  out  Wick- 
ford,  "that's  the  fact  of  it.  I  swear  I'm  just  put  to 
it  to  think  what  I'll  do  without  him  when  he  goes — 
on  the  estate,  I  mean.  The  people  are  all  in  his 
pocket — I'm  nowhere  with  them, — and  if  it's  bad 
here,  it's  worse  in  Ireland — what  are  you  laughin' 
at?"  He  broke  short. 

"You  may  come  into  your  own,"  suggested  Sir 
George,  "if  I  carry  him  off." 

"I  might — here,"  said  the  Duke,  considering  it. 
"Not  there, — no  chance!  But  we  were  talkin'  of 
his  attainments,  not  his  impudence,  if  I  remember. 
.  .  .  He's  beastly  good  on  plants,  and  all  these  last 
months,  on  and  off,  he's  been  reading  like  the  deuce. 
On  my  honour  I  believe  he's  been  reading  half  the 
time  lately  when  Lise  thinks  he's  looking  at 
her " 

"Hullo!"  said  Sir  George,  his  thoughtful  brow 
clearing.  "Is  Lise  still  here*?" 

"Rather,  sir, — you're  going  to  meet  her.  We've 
got,"  said  the  Duke,  duty-bound,  "an  appallin' 
entertainment  for  you  this  evening " 

"It's  very  kind  of  your  mother,"  said  Sir  George, 
his  thoughtful  brow  clouding  again. 

"But  you  may  have   tea  at  Hatchways   first." 


INCLUSION    OF    SIR    GEORGE        293 

This  from  Gabriel,  who  had  had  the  immense  satis- 
faction of  really  seeing  an  aeroplane,  while  the  lat- 
ter conversation  proceeded.  It  had  flown  singing — 
vrombissant  delicately — across  his  spirit's  sky.  Sir 
George  was  too  old,  and  the  Duke  too  unintelligent, 
to  discover  it.  Iveagh,  whom  they  patronised, 
would  have  found  it  at  once — at  once!  It  was 
gratifying,  altogether.  .  .  .  "You  may  have  tea 
with  us,"  he  said. 

"No,  no,  Gabriel,  I  may  not.  I  shall  have  tea 
with  Wickford's  mother,  who  is  my  oldest 
friend '" 

"And  talk  all  this  through  again,  much  more  con- 
nectedly. How  fortunate,  first,"  said  Gabriel, 
"that  we  have  given  you  light." 

Sir  George  glanced  at  Wick,  to  see  how  he  was 
taking  it.  "He  really  does  talk  English  very 
nicely,"  he  suggested.  "One  can  bear  a  good  deal 
of  pertness,  when  it  is  put  so  well." 

"He's  welcome,"  said  Wickford:  and  the  friend 
saw  it  was  all  right.  The  little  Duke's  singular 
personal  realm  of  pride  was  known  to  him,  as  was 
Gabriel's  native  realm  of  impudence  also.  But  he 
saw  that  in  this  case,  in  the  best  accord  of  a  common 
object,  a  common  desire, — a  common  wish, — the 
nations  had  shaken  down. 


294.  HATCHWAYS 

"George, — thank  goodness!" 

"Gertrude, — I  am  very  glad." 

They  met  as  old  friends,  and  both  remarks  were 
heartfelt.  Sir  George  was  not  at  all  glad  to  pay 
week-end  visits  to  the  Duchess  of  Wickford,  he  dis- 
liked it  thoroughly:  but  he  was  glad  to  see  Gertrude, 
always.  He  was  only  sorry  to  find  her  looking  so 
aged  and  careworn.  The  first  thing  the  friendly 
eye  noted  was  that  she  looked  tired  to  death. 

"I  can't  think  what's  come  over  me,"  she  ad- 
mitted, after  a  little  desultory  talk  and  feeding, 
"but  I'm  afraid  of  this  affair  to-night.  I  have  a 
presentiment  things  will  not  go  right  with  it." 

"How's  that?"  said  Sir  George,  who  had  never 
heard  Gertrude  admit  as  much  before,  even  of  her 
most  ill-fated  entertainments.  It  was  remarkable. 

"I  can't  think,  for  I've  certainly  done  my  best  for 
it.  I  suppose  I'm  rubbed-up,"  said  the  Duchess, 
adopting  the  Oxborough  expression  out  of  the  void. 
"I've  had  extremely  tiresome  people  laterly,  that's 
the  fact.  My  temper's  gone,  George,  I  warn 
you " 

"You  want  Ernestine,"  said  Sir  George  cheer- 
fully. "She'll  set  you  right  as  soon  as  she  comes. 
No  more  tea,  thank  you.  I  hope  she's  well*?" 

"She's  not  coming  to-night,"  said  the  Duchess. 


INCLUSION    OF    SIR    GEORGE        295 

"Not? — Oh,  I'm  sorry,  Gertrude.  Don't  say 
that." 

It  was  Gertrude's  face  that  said,  of  course,  more 
plain  than  words,  the  state  of  things.  She  looked 
miserable,  really:  even  as,  at  the  worst  of  Iveagh, 
the  friend  had  never  seen  her  look.  He  searched 
his  spirit,  during  the  subsequent  minutes,  to  con- 
ceive what  it  could  be.  Ernestine  had  stood  out 
about  something, — he  saw  it  like  that  at  once.  She 
was  given  to  standing  out,  or  standing  up,  at  inter- 
vals. Yet  she  was  so  very  hard  to  quarrel  with,  so 
straight,  so  liberal.  .  .  . 

"She's  setting  my  own  children  against  me,"  said 
the  Duchess. 

"No,  no,"  said  Sir  George  quietly.  "The  con- 
trary." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"How  should  I,  but  by  knowing  her*?  I  have 
her  letters.  She  has  not  spoken  a  word  of  this." 

The  Duchess  was  silent.  She  had  spoken  a  word 
of  it,  to  various  Oxboroughs,  far  from  intimate;  she 
had  had  to,  needing  to  defend  herself.  Yet  it  only 
looked  to  her,  in  her  aggrieved  state,  as  if  she  missed 
Ernestine  more  than  Ernestine  her,  the  idea  of  which 
was  absurd  and  shameful.  Should  it  not  be  some- 
thing to  Ernestine,  to  have  lost  her  regard"? 


296  HATCHWAYS 

"Iveagh's  behaviour  is  abominable,"  said  the 
Duchess,  by  no  distant  line  of  communication. 
"He  can't  even  treat  me  with  decent  civility  in  pub- 
lic. He  is  always,"  she  added,  "haunting  that 
place." 

"Hatchways?  But  Lise  has  been  staying  there, 
hasn't  she?" 

"Long  before  that." 

"Gertrude,  will  you  take  my  word  that,  by  all  the 
evidence  I  ever  had,  Ernestine  has  kept  Iveagh  in 
the  ways  of  civility,  and  civilisation  too, — when  it 
was  very  difficult.  How  could  she,  caring  for  you, 
do  otherwise*?" 

"She  never  cared  for  me." 

"Caring  for  him,  then,"  said  Sir  George  patiently. 
Things  were  certainly  very  bad. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  dare  say!  She  never  cared  for  me," 
reiterated  the  Duchess.  "It's  all  receiving,  no  re- 
turning. Isabel  says  she's  cold." 

"Please  do  not  give  me  Isabel.  I  value  you  so 
much  more.  I  remember  a  time,"  said  Sir  George, 
"when  you  went  down  there  for  comfort,  as  you 
would  not  to  a  cold  woman.  You  needed  her 
then."  You  need  her  now,  he  thought.  You  need 
her, — you  know  it. 

Gertrude  did.     Isabel,  lately  taken  to  her  bosom, 


INCLUSION    OF    SIR    GEORGE       297 

faute  de  mieux,  was  but  wretched  consolation. 
Gertrude  was  far  too  clever  and  complex  for  Isabel. 

"Lise  is  a  nice  little  thing,"  she  said  soon,  again 
by  no  distant  line  of  connection.  Lise  was  the  lat- 
est, on  trial  in  Ernestine's  place. 

"Lise? — oh,  yes.  I  shall  like  to  see  her."  He 
followed  quietly. 

"She's  come  out  a  lot,"  said  the  Duchess. 
"Mark's  improved  her.  More  character." 

"Character?     Surely  she'd  plenty  before." 

"Not  much,  I  think:  very  pliable.  Easily  influ- 
enced, for  good  or  evil.  Mark's  could  only  be  for 
good." 

"Certainly,"  said  Sir  George,  following  again. 
"You  have  news  of  Mark?" 

This  was  happier.  Gertrude  told  him.  He  was 
drenched  with  news  of  Mark,  speculation  concern- 
ing him,  hopes  expressed,  honours  predicted, — all 
very  like  old  times. 

"If  Iveagh  could  do  something  like  that 
now "  said  Sir  George :  wickedly,  we  fear. 

"It's  not  in  him,"  said  Iveagh's  mother,  her  face 
darkening.  "He's  weak  essentially,  and  worse. 
Not  to  be  trusted  a  moment.  He's  been  drinking 
again,  Adelaide  says." 

"Adelaide!     My  dear  Gertrude,  I  shall  have  to 


298  HATCHWAYS 

ask  you  to  choose  your  authority,  before  you  quote 
to  me!  Adelaide  and  Isabel!  Where's  yourself? 
Where's  Wickford?  He  told  me  his  brother  was 
better,  much." 

"Drinking  on  his  father's  side,"  said  the  Duchess, 
after  a  pause,  somewhat  put  out.  She  had  not 
thought  her  son  would  forestall  her  here. 

"What  then?  I  was  not  suspecting  yours. 
Only  don't  you  see  how  much  better  that  makes  it*?" 

"Better?" 

"To  be  sure.  Granted  a  grain  of  inheritance, 
and  that  temptation,  and  a  state  like  that  poor  lad's 
these  two  years.  Wick  says  the  struggle's  been  a 
stiff  one,  and  I  don't  doubt  it.  It  isn't  as  if  he 
hadn't  the  opportunity  to  exceed,  in  your  society. 
It  isn't  as  if  he  hadn't  needed  it " 

"Needed?     You  amaze  me,  George." 

"Probably,"  said  Sir  George,  moving  the  tea- 
things,  "you  have  never  felt  the  need.  I 
have  .  .  ." 

"George!" 

"Yes.  I  thought  I'd  tell  you,  before  Adelaide 
spread  tales  about  me.  Just  lately,  Wick  says,  he 
seems  to  have  floored  it  entirely, — turned  the  other 
way,  and  looking  low  in  consequence.  On  my 
honour,"  said  Sir  George,  twitching  the  table-cloth, 


INCLUSION    OF    SIR    GEORGE       299 

"I'd  been  settling  to  talk  to  him  in  an  opposite  sense. 
I  never  did  believe  in  abstaining,  suddenly.  ...  I 
won't,  if  you  prefer  it." 

The  Duchess  was  amazed.  She  could  hardly  get 
over  this  easy  disposal,  by  George,  of  her  most 
haunting  shame,  in  the  matter  of  Iveagh.  She  had 
always,  round  the  corner  from  her  husband,  backed 
the  cause  of  abstinence  vigorously.  Encourage  a 
boy  to  drink  more,  when  he  had  dropped  it!  It 
struck  her  as  strange,  of  George,  very,  to  take  such 
a  line.  Yet  such  careless,  one-handed  routing  of 
her  most  effective  and  well-stored  arguments  seemed 
to  remind  her  of  something.  It  revived  a  certain 
atmosphere,  as  her  brothers  had  been  unable  to  do, 
in  Holmer  House. 

It  was  good  for  the  Duchess  to  be  over-ridden,  by 
the  few  people  in  the  world  to  whom  she  granted 
leave  to  do  it,  that  was  the  fact. 

"It's  nice  to  have  a  man  about  the  place  again," 
she  said  suddenly,  at  a  later  period,  when  her  son 
and  her  guest  had  been  dawdling  about  the  half- 
dark  hall,  smoking  and  comparing  fire-arms,  instead 
of  going  to  their  rooms  to  dress. 

"Now  I  call  that  hard  on  Wickford,"  remarked 
Sir  George. 


XVII 
M.  DU  FRETTAY  MEETS  A  BISHOP 

MRS.  ELPHINSTONE  and  M.  du  Frettay,  convinced 
that  the  Duchess's  dinner-party  would  be  as  dull  as 
ditchwater  unless  they  did  their  best  for  it,  pre- 
pared from  the  outset  to  take  it  in  hand. 

"I  shall  expect  you  to  assist  me,"  said  Lise,  in  a 
general  manner,  before  setting  out. 

"I  shall  struggle  after,"  said  Gabriel,  looking  at 
her  in  her  last  new  dress  with  hopeless  delight. 

Must  we  describe  it1?  Dress  matters  so  little  on 
such  persons.  Lise,  inside  a  friar's  frock,  inside 
a  Prussian  lady's  Reformkleid,  would  have  been 
delightful.  She  wore  straw-coloured  silk,  lace- 
draped,  and  she  could  bear  it,  for  her  smooth  sallow 
skin  turned  olive  at  night.  The  shadows  on  her 
cendre  locks  darkened  also;  the  whole  of  her  little 
head  seemed  pencilled,  shaded,  bewilderingly  soft. 
Of  old  it  had  been  bewilderingly  shaggy  also,  but 
now  Lise  did  her  hair  nicely,  in  deference  to  her 
station  and  Mark.  The  tints  of  her  draperies  were 

300 


DU   FRETTAY    MEETS    A    BISHOP      301 

exquisite,  like  the  blending  of  the  fairy-tale  dresses 
of  silver  and  gold.  As  for  lace,  her  mother's  old 
Limerick  could  face  any  Duchess:  and  so  could  her 
diamonds,  being  the  Duchess's  gift.  It  was  prettily 
done  of  her,  Lise  asserted,  to  put  them  on :  whereto, 
seeing  how  prettily  it  was  done,  her  gasping  public 
agreed. 

The  pair  departed  on  foot,  though  the  Duchess 
had  offered  the  carriage :  but  Lise  laughed  in  Wick- 
ford's  face.  The  idea  of  it!  The  lanes  were  dry, 
weren't  they?  Or  if  they  were  not,  entirely,  in 
places, — she  had  yet  another  pair  of  shoes.  Her 
dance  ones,  for  instance,  though  certainly  they  did 
not  suit  her  frock  so  well  as  the  bronze  she  had  on. 
She  asked  M.  du  Frettay's  opinion  on  the  point, 
before  departure.  Gabriel,  whose  main  temptation, 
in  the  matter  of  the  little  bronze  shoes,  was  much 
the  same  as  Iveagh's,  of  old,  in  the  garden,  advised 
her  seriously  to  keep  them, — and  as  for  the  muddy 
places  in  the  lane,  he  would  lay  down  his  cloak. 

Lise,  who  liked  this  sort  of  thing,  danced  along  at 
his  side  very  happily.  Compared  with  other  things 
in  life,  mud-stains  on  her  shoes  mattered  very  little, 
— she  was  not  that  sort  of  girl.  They  entered  the 
state  drawing-room  at  Holmer  together,  under  the 
soft  radiance  of  many  candles,  as  charming  a  couple 


302  HATCHWAYS 

as  could  have  been  chosen,  from  two  capitals  at 
least:  du  Frettay  half-smiling,  as  though  foreseeing 
for  Lise  the  effect  she  must  make. 

"Dear  me,  that  is  a  very  fine  young  fellow,"  said 
the  Bishop,  benevolently  bending  his  glass.  "I  do 
not  seem  to  remember  him." 

The  Bishop,  it  should  be  said,  having  haunted 
Eton  twelve  years  previously,  considered  that  he 
knew  practically  everybody  of  du  Frettay's  age, — 
everybody  likely  to  dine  at  a  Duke's  table,  anyhow. 
His  face  fell,  when  he  heard  the  truth  from  Wick- 
ford.  Evidently,  so  fine  a  young  fellow  should 
have  been  Eton  property;  and  record-breaking  in 
the  air,  a  risky  job,  had  better  have  been  undertaken 
under  English  auspices  too.  However,  the  Bishop 
was  gracious,  on  hearing  that  M.  du  Frettay  longed 
to  be  presented  to  him;  nor  could  the  Bishop  realise 
(as  Sir  George  did)  for  how  long  this  had  been  M. 
du  Frettay's  desire,  or  wish. 

"You're  a  ripper, — go  on,"  said  the  Duke  to  him 
sotto  voce,  at  least  once  during  the  evening:  for 
Wickford,  very  soon,  was  mightily  tired  of  his  part. 
Of  all  the  problems  with  which  his  mother  had  ever 
faced  him,  this  evening  was  the  deadliest, — bad 
from  the  start.  Adelaide,  after  their  morning  ride 
to  town,  during  which  he  had  held  her  in  her  future 


DU    FRETTAY    MEETS    A    BISHOP      303 

position,  steadily,  was  waspish  and  truculent.  His 
aunt  and  the  Honourable  Mrs.  Courtier  were  already 
conveying  innuendoes  across  intervening  parties, — 
the  first  stage.  The  Bishop  was  beaming  a  very 
plague  of  patronage,  and  clearing  his  throat  in  a 
scholastic  manner  Wickford  remembered,  with 
shrinking;  and  Sir  George,  their  lion,  the  trump- 
card  of  the  evening, — in  the  critical  preprandial  in- 
stants, where  was  Sir  George*? 

"Well,  my  little  boy,"  said  Sir  George  quietly,  in 
the  shadow  of  the  further  room,  where  another  than 
he  was  lurking,  oddly  enough,  until  the  strictest 
need.  Iveagh's  back  was  turned,  and  his  head  rest- 
ing on  his  hands  as  he  stood  by  the  unused  hearth. 
"Wick  tells  me  you're  better, — I  hope  it  will  last." 

"I  was  never  ill,"  said  Iveagh,  dropping  an  elbow 
and  allowing  him  a  hand.  "To  mention,"  he 
added,  under  the  discerning  eye. 

Sir  George,  being  a  skilled  wanderer,  had  more 
than  half  a  doctor's  training,  and  double  most  doc- 
tors' experience  of  mortal  ills.  He  was  the  only 
person,  during  the  bad  time,  who  had  prescribed 
physically  for  Iveagh,  in  the  intervals  of  the  moral 
"ragging"  which  the  Duke,  lacking  the  necessary 
power,  had  handed  him  to  perform.  Sir  George 


304  HATCHWAYS 

was  a  martinet,  at  root,  as  the  Duchess  had  said: 
when  his  back  was  straightened,  he  had  a  tremen- 
dously sharp  tongue.  Slating, — slanging, — the  real 
sledgehammer,  he  was  capable  of  any  grade  of  the 
process.  Yet  Iveagh,  who  had  suffered  the  worst 
from  him,  gave  his  hand  without  hesitation,  sur- 
prised in  the  half-dark  and  complete  absence  of 
spirit  as  he  was. 

"Sleep,  do  you?"  said  Sir  George.  "Dream 
less?' 

"I've  not  been  dreamin'  lately." 

"Dream  come  true,  possibly."  That  was  the  sur- 
geon, right  to  the  middle  of  the  wound.  "Lise,"  he 
added,  "is  very  pretty  to-night."  He  looked 
through  the  intervening  drapery  into  the  other  room, 
where  both  could  see  some  of  the  guests. 

"She  always  is,"  said  Iveagh. 

"Right, — I  beg  your  pardon."  Sir  George 
laughed,  for  he  relished  resistance.  No  sledgeham- 
mer methods,  he  knew,  would  ever  flatten  Iveagh; 
his  elasticity  would  always  slip  round,  wriggle  out, 
spring  up  again.  He  liked  the  knowledge,  which 
had  been  throughout  the  boy's  best  hope  of  safety: 
it  was  a  useful  inheritance  from  a  fighting  race.  Sir 
George  knew  well,  better  even  than  Gertrude,  how 
splendid,  in  all  its  bearings,  that  inheritance  was. 


DU   FRETTAY    MEETS    A   BISHOP      305 

It  was  under  the  great  Duke's  auspices,  under  his 
painted  eyes  often,  as  now,  that  he  had  "ragged" 
the  Duke's  little  boy.  There  was  no  harm  in  it,  to 
so  deeply  sweet  and  seasoned  a  nature,  under  its  sur- 
face sulks,  which  were  simply  racial.  Even  without 
Ernestine's  constant  reassurance,  he  would  have 
known  there  was  no  harm. 

"Can  you  tell  me  what  my  fate  is,  Iveagh?"  he 
said.  "I'd  sooner  he  warned." 

"Dinner,  you  mean?"  Iveagh  told  him,  or  rather, 
gave  him  his  view  of  the  chances.  "We,"  he  said, 
had  changed  pretty  often.  He  said  "we"  for  his 
mother  like  Wickford,  but  not  with  the  same  purely 
respectful  intent.  "It'll  be  Addy's  mother,  by 
now,"  he  judged.  ''Question  was,  if  you  were  for- 
ward enough." 

"Forward!"  groaned  Sir  George. 

"We  tossed  for  a  time  between  you  and  Wick," 
explained  Iveagh.  "Now  you've  scored,  strikes  me. 
It's  your  book  bein'  out, — his  isn't, — won't  be  for 
years.  Did  you  see  Mrs.  Redgate  comin'  up1?" 

"No,  we  came  straight  through  for  once,  no  stop- 
pages. I  hear,"  said  Sir  George,  "she's  a  niece  with 
her,  who  has  been  painting  Lise.  Is  it  a  good  por- 
trait?" 

Iveagh  conveyed  the  portrait  was  decent.     He 


306  HATCHWAYS 

had  an  idea  the  girl  was  bringing  it  up  to-morrow — 
show  mother — so  on.  If  she  did  not — too  fright- 
ened— he  purposed  to  go  and  fetch  her.  "She's 
frightened  of  Uncle  Giles,"  he  added. 

"Oxborough1?     Why4? — does  he  tease  her*?" 

"No — frightened  of  lookin'  at  him  somehow. 
Lookin'  his  way."  He  had  his  completest  cave- 
dwelling  gravity,  as  he  peered  through  the  curtains. 
But  it  was  his  own  gravity, — his  old  self. 

"Oh,  you're  better,  much  better,"  thought  the 
friend.  "Ernestine's  slyer  than  I  thought,  though. 
Can  that  be  her  cure?" 

Yet  he  knew  it  might  mean  little  in  the  case, — the 
Suirs  had  always  plenty  of  girls  about.  They  never 
reduced  their  chances  of  variety,  in  a  life  so  full  of 
curious  interest,  by  consorting  with  one  sex  only,  any 
more  than  with  one  class.  Iveagh,  at  his  worst,  had 
never  abjured  feminine  society.  It  was,  as  one 
might  say,  all  the  same  to  him. 

Things  being  so  promising  for  health — inward 
health,  for  outwardly  the  boy  looked  "low"  and 
languid  as  his  brother  said, — it  was  not  at  all  Sir 
George's  first  instinct  to  torment  him  with  histories 
of  his  Magnificence  Mark  Elphinstone,  urged  by 
Lise.  It  was  not  anybody's  first  instinct  to  torment 
Iveagh.  Adelaide,  urged  by  jealousy,  might  enjoy 


DU    FRETTAY    MEETS    A    BISHOP      307 

it,  or  Lise  caught  in  a  fine  fury  of  self-purgation,  but 
not  sensible,  well-poised  people  like  Ernestine  and 
Sir  George.  We  only  mention  the  unremarkable 
fact  that  the  guest  of  the  evening  was  unwilling  to 
fall  in  with  any  such  line  of  action,  as  prelude  to  the 
less  remarkable  fact  that  he  succumbed  to  Lise. 

The  fact  was  least  remarkable  of  all,  that  Mrs. 
Elphinstone  faced  him  at  the  Duchess's  table,  the 
while  he  had  at  his  elbows  those  ill-wishing  cats, 
Lady  Oxborough  and  Adelaide's  mamma.  It  was, 
of  course,  a  highly  honourable  position;  but  the  main 
result  was  that  the  lion  ate  little,  and  said  nothing 
at  all.  Nothing,  at  least,  of  the  kind  that  was  to 
be  expected  from  him. 

"Look, — oh,  look  at  the  man!"  almost  groaned 
the  Duchess.  "Wouldn't  you  say  he  was  a  school- 
boy? Why,  Wickford  was  better  at  school!" 

"Wickford  had  excellent  manners,"  said  the 
Bishop,  and  began  to  tell  anecdotes  of  him  to  which 
a  mother  should  have  attended:  but  the  Duchess 
could  not.  How  could  she?  Her  worst  presenti- 
ments were  coming  to  pass:  her  table,  faute  de 
George,  falling  to  pieces  beneath  her  eyes.  Lise 
was  talking  highly  treasonable  rubbish  to  Wickford 
about  the  Eastern  Service,  instead  of  attending  to 
Giles.  The  Duchess's  dear  son  Iveagh,  to  her  right, 


308  HATCHWAYS 

was  behaving  quite  impossibly  to  the  nice  girl  his 
mother  had  found  for  him,  whose  usefulness  in  life 
was  manifest  by  her  neglected  clothes.  Lise  was 
neglected  too,  a  keen  observer:  her  frock,  though 
good  enough,  was  not  put  on  with  that  attention  to 
rigid  decorum  the  Duchess  would  have  wished — for 
Mark.  Adelaide  was  a  model  to  everyone,  smartly 
simple,  admirably  maided,  but  not  a  man  of  them 
really  heeded  her.  One  and  all,  Giles,  George,  even 
the  little  wretch  du  Frettay, — even  the  Duchess's 
own  Bishop, — they  looked  towards  Lise. 

Meanwhile,  of  course,  Lise  saved  the  dinner-table 
single-handed,  and  kept  three  men,  at  any  rate,  quite 
happy  in  their  minds.  No  one  looking  at  her,  or 
listening,  could  be  sensible  of  a  duty  ill-performed 
to  others.  In  vain  the  Duke,  supported  by  his  aunt, 
Lady  Oxborough,  laid  subtle  siege  to  the  lion  at 
their  right  hand.  Lise,  in  the  act  of  taking  her  seat, 
had  smiled  across  at  "S'  George"  to  cheer  him  up, — 
it  seemed  to  have  the  opposite  effect  of  entrancing 
him.  He  endeavoured  in  vain  to  look  at  Adelaide's 
bepowdered  mother,  at  Isabel's  broad  face  and 
bovine  eyes.  Lise  was  nicer  to  look  at, — she  was 
nicer!  She  was  wild,  wicked,  and  she  was  saying 
true  things.  Wit  and  truth  about  the  powers  that 


DU    FRETTAY    MEETS    A    BISHOP      309 

be,  and  the  powers  that  never  should  have  bee^  in 
India. 

"She's  right,  the  girl,"  said  Sir  George,  and  went 
off  for  a  time  to  Isabel.  But  it  was  useless:  soon, 
quite  soon,  his  vague  appearance  showed  he  was 
listening  again. 

Owing  to  the  discomfort  of  his  situation,  as  has 
been  said,  Sir  George  almost  failed  to  notice  his 
food;  but  the  wine  he  could  not  fail  to  notice  in  this 
house,  for  Wickford's  father's  famous  cellar  merited 
a  strict  regard.  It  was  right  beyond  criticism:  it 
baffled  praise,  unless  a  poet's :  it  incited  the  connois- 
seur to  dreaming, — and  the  practical-minded  Oxbor- 
ough  to  drinking  while  others  dreamed.  Gertrude's 
wine  was  one  of  the  reasons  why  her  brothers  showed 
such  a  clinging  preference  for  her  society ;  and  noth- 
ing would  induce  us  to  disclose  the  dodges  to  which 
she  and  her  son  resorted  to  keep  them  from  despoil- 
ing her  of  her  best.  Such  a  foundation  of  things  at 
Holmer  was  also,  as  Sir  George  had  said,  a  tempta- 
tion to  the  boys, — or  would  have  been,  in  his  own 
day.  Oddly,  the  modem  custom  has  turned  against 
it:  and  the  temptation,  owing  to  the  strong  hand  of 
fashion,  is  altogether  less  than  it  was. 


310  HATCHWAYS 

All  the  same,  SUITS  were  born  with  the  taste,  and 
Sir  George  looked  once  or  twice,  with  his  long- 
sighted hunter's  glance,  across  and  down  the  table  to 
Iveagh.  Next  he  turned  his  attention  to  Michael 
serving,  but  Michael  never  went  near  him.  It  was 
collaboration,  most  clearly,  and  the  boy's  intention 
that  the  company  should  overlook. 

"I  am  so  glad,"  said  Iveagh's  useful  girl  once: 
and  he  found  her  busy  blue  eyes  fixed  on  the  water 
in  his  glass. 

"Cheek,"  thought  Iveagh,  but  of  course  he  did 
not  say  it:  one  never  says  things  like  that  to  useful 
girls.  He  attended  to  her  at  first  in  careless  Suir 
fashion,  not  flirting  exactly,  but  satisfying  her 
greedy  spirit,  which  was  greedier,  of  course,  than 
that  of  less  useful  and  excellent  girls.  Her  head 
craned  lizard-like  while  she  responded.  Iveagh 
thought,  once  or  twice,  how  much  nicer  Bess  would 
have  been  beside  him,  chiefly  because  he  could  have 
talked  sense  to  Bess.  Chiefly, — there  were  other 
things.  The  way  she  held  her  head,  upright,  not 
poking  eagerly:  her  beautiful  white  neck  and  blue, 
but  very  far  from  busy  eyes.  The  blessing,  to  be 
looked  at  fully  by  a  girl  as  Bess  did,  with  eyes  that 
held,  and  helped,  and  took  you  in;  and  which  then 
dropped  away  shyly  into  private  dreams,  a  private 


DU   FRETTAY    MEETS    A   BISHOP      311 

world  without  any  doubt  sweet  and  worthy,  a  world 
which  any  man  on  earth  would  want  to  know.  .  .  , 
It  was  strange  how  this  lizard-like  creature  at  his 
side  made  him  think  of  Bess,  who  ought  by  rights 
to  have  been  sitting  in  her  chair.  .  .  .  He  turned 
his  head  slightly  to  Michael,  who  disturbed  him 
with  decanters  and  a  message  from  Wickford. 

"Let  him  go  to  the  deuce,"  said  Iveagh,  sliding 
his  sleepy  eyes  sidelong.  "And  don't  come  near  me 
again  when  I  told  you  not." 

"There  you  are !"  said  Michael  to  the  other  man 
who  had  handed  him  this  dangerous  duty.  "For  a 
week  past  he  will  not,  and  what's  the  use  of  trying 
to  turn  him*?" 

"He  might  come  round,"  murmured  the  other 
man.  "He's  wanting  it,  anyone  can  see." 

"He  couldn't  be  other  than  wanting  it,"  said 
Michael  scornfully,  "after  a  week.  But  they'd  best 
let  him  be,  Sir  George  and  his  Grace  as  well.  That 
young  lady  is  fast  annoying  him." 

"Such  an  interesting  head,"  said  the  useful  girl, 
who  had  been  poking  in  Sir  George's  direction. 
"Doesn't  he  remind  you  of  a  lion*?" 

"I  have  not  much  acquaintance  among  lions — " 
began  Iveagh. 


312  HATCHWAYS 

"Answer  sensibly,"  said  his  mother  on  his  other 
side. 

— "And  if  I  had,"  proceeded  Iveagh,  "I'd  be  won- 
dering which  you  meant." 

"You  talk  as  though  there  were  differences,  in 
animals,"  the  useful  girl  pointed  out.  Iveagh's 
thoughts  strayed  from  her. 

"I  hear  she  is  wonderfully  musical,"  said  the  use- 
ful girl,  now  poking  at  Mrs.  Elphinstone. 

"She  is,"  said  Iveagh. 

"How  nice  for  him,"  said  the  useful  girl. 

"Do  you  know  Elphinstone?"  said  Iveagh,  awak- 
ing slightly. 

"Why  of  course"  said  the  useful  girl.  "I  -worked 
for  him." 

"By  the  powers,  she's  fond  of  Mark!"  thought 
Iveagh.  As  for  what  she  worked  at,  he  did  not 
think  of  asking,  the  other  discovery  was  so  much 
more  worth  while.  Besides,  he  had  no  intention 
himself  of  engaging  her  services.  Wick  might  if  he 
liked. 

Finally,  the  lizard  turned  to  his  uncle,  her  other 
neighbour,  and  Iveagh  was,  of  course,  alone.  It 
was  not  likely  his  mother  would  notice  him,  in  the 
circumstances.  Things  in  general  were  too  appall- 
ing. 


DU    FRETTAY    MEETS    A    BISHOP      313 

He  watched  the  other  girls:  Lise,  bless  her,  more 
beautiful  than  words,  throwing  the  treasures  of  her 
wit  and  well-being  into  their  pitiful  stock.  With 
half  an  ear,  all  the  time,  he  had  heard  her  sweet 
pliant  tone,  the  ineffable  cadence  when  the  point 
came,  and  the  sure  laugh  that  succeeded.  But  he 
could  worship  it  as  well  from  where  he  was, — he  was 
not  envious  of  Wick's  position.  .  .  .  Adelaide, 
flirting  with  du  Frettay,  talking  too  loud,  but  that 
was  habitual.  It  was  time,  by  rights,  Addy  turned 
back  to  the  Bishop,  and  released  his  mother, — not 
that  he  cared,  but  it  was  time. 

Iveagh  watched  for  the  table  break  to  travel 
round  because  it  amused  him, — it  was  so  asinine. 
Why  should  not  people  like  Lise,  Trenchard,  and  du 
Frettay  orate,  and  those  listen  who  wished?  Be- 
sides, du  Frettay  would  enjoy  orating.  .  .  .  He 
was  now  talking  French  to  the  Courtier- woman : 
Iveagh  liked  to  see  him  talking  French.  He  was 
ripping  to  see  anyhow,  fresh  and  keen  beside  Addy's 
mother,  whose  artificial  head  was  leaning  almost  to 
his  shoulder, — fooling  the  poor  old  goat,  no  doubt. 
Du  Frettay  was  a  caution  with  women,  fooled  the 
lot.  It  was  hardly  fair  on  some  of  them.  .  .  . 

Dash,  how  his  head  wras  aching!  This,  with 
Iveagh,  was  not  an  unheard-of  evil,  and  he  had  a 


314  HATCHWAYS 

familiar  remedy  he  could  drop  into  his  glass  at  need. 
He  thought  of  sending  Michael  for  it,  and  then  let 
it  slide  again.  It  would  do  later.  In  the  act  of  so 
thinking,  he  noticed  Adelaide,  in  the  seam  of  the 
table-conversation,  drop  something  into  her  cham- 
pagne glass,  and  swallow  it  hastily.  Spurred  by  the 
coincidence  he  stirred,  stared  across  at  her  face,  bril- 
liant,— overheated, — her  fine  languishing  eyes.  .  .  . 

"That  girl's  going  after  her  mother,"  reflected  the 
Duchess  aloud,  she  having  noted  the  action  at  the 
same  moment  as  he  did.  She  had  not  meant  to 
speak  aloud,  but  internal  worry  so  produced  it. 

Drugs,  was  it*?  Beastly, — he  must  warn  Wick. 
That  was  really  Iveagh's  only  thought  about  it.  As 
usual,  his  mind  shied  willingly  from  Adelaide,  and 
he  prepared  to  depart  elsewhere  in  spirit  again. 

"Isn't  Poppy  a  clever  girl?"  said  the  Duchess. 
(Poppy,  was  she?)  "She  took  a  first-class  in 
Mathematics." 

"Rippin3,"  said  Iveagh.  His  mother  always 
threw  people's  classes  at  him,  particularly  girls. 

"What  did  she  talk  about?"  said  the  Duchess. 

"Lions,  I  think,"  said  Iveagh,  who  felt,  in  the 
circumstances,  that  he  had  better  not  mention  Mark. 

"Have  you  a  headache?"  said  the  Duchess,  chieily 
because  he  was  so  civil. 


DU   FRETTAY    MEETS   A   BISHOP      315 

'Til  get  through,"  said  the  boy.  His  mother 
glanced  at  him  sharply, — she  knew  the  look  of  his 
eyes. 

"You  ought  to  get  that  Frenchman  to  teach  you 
English."  (What  had  he  said  now?)  ''Have  you 
got  your  thing*?" 

"I've  taken  it,"  said  Iveagh :  a  lie,  but  he  did  not 
want  a  fuss. 

The  Duchess  dropped  silent,  catching  a  glance 
from  her  other  son  up  the  table.  A  new  department 
of  inner  discomfort  stirred,  that  had  not  stirred  for 
long.  These  headaches  of  Iveagh's  were  direct  in- 
heritance, though  his  were  worse  than  his  father's. 
Some  doctor,  a  friend  of  George's,  had  once  told  her 
to  watch  them:  not,  as  she  had  at  first  supposed,  in 
the  matter  of  his  school-work,  but  in  other  things, 
emotion,  excitability.  Emotion!  She  had  a  little 
thrill  of  wonder,  approaching  to  vulgar  curiosity,  if 
that  were  really  what  Wickford's  sharp,  lingering 
glance  at  them  had  meant.  It  would  be  queer  in- 
deed if  he  and  George,  in  their  perpetual  work  and 
planning  for  the  boy,  these  three  years  back,  had  had 
that  vision  behind  him.  Unsteady,  she  had  called 
Iveagh  to  George:  unsteady  what?  Morals,  she 
had  supposed.  But  the  brain  is  different. 

The  women  left  at  last,  but  then  it  was  Sir  Giles. 


316  HATCHWAYS 

Giles,  being  left  out  of  the  conversation  at  the  end 
of  the  table,  spent  most  of  the  interlude  in  teasing 
his  younger  nephew  for  his  empty  glass,  and  in  re- 
filling his  own.  The  Duchess  might  say  such  temp- 
tation was  peculiar  to  her  husband's  side,  but  Ox- 
boroughs  drank  a  good  deal:  the  main  difference 
being  that  they  could  stand  it,  while  Suir  nature 
resisted  the  fumes  less  easily.  Now,  granted  com- 
parative solitude, — the  Frenchman  across  the  table 
did  not  count, — and  the  Elphinstone  girl's  recent 
departure  from  his  other  elbow,  and  the  information 
gleaned  from  Addy,  and  improved  by  jesting  with 
Sam,  the  chance  for  a  little  natural  humour  at  the 
expense  of  a  boy  whom  he  had  never  liked,  was 
quite  a  pretty  one.  Giles,  undiscouraged  by  du 
Frettay's  sallies  for  diversion,  made  the  best  of  his 
pretty  chance:  and  Iveagh  grew  whiter  and  more 
savage,  momentarily. 

"You'd  better,"  hinted  du  Frettay,  snicking  one 
of  the  decanters.  "That's  no  harm — it  will  stop- 
him-off, — he  is  stupid." 

"He  is,"  said  Iveagh,  in  the  equal  tone  of  perfect 
obstinacy. 

"You  have  not  sworn  off?"  argued  Gabriel,  for 
he  could  not  conceive  it. 

"Till  Monday." 


DU    FRETTAY    MEETS    A    BISHOP      317 

"Never!— why?' 

"Nothin',— I  said  I  would." 

"To  your  brother?" 

"No." 

Giles  broke  in  with  more  open  baiting,  for  Sir 
George  had  left  the  table.  He  was  obviously  over- 
doing things  in  all  senses,  when  the  Duke's  attention 
was  attracted :  and  he  and  the  Bishop  between  them 
decided  that  the  men  should  move. 

"Well,  we'll  ask  Mrs.  Elphinstone,"  said  Giles, 
too  loud,  alluding  to  something,  heaven  knows  what, 
that  he  had  lately  said. 

"I'd  like  you  to,"  said  Iveagh,  expressively. 

"Gently,  my  boy,"  said  the  Bishop,  in  his  second 
tone,  neither  pulpit  nor  society, — something  be- 
tween. 


XVIII 
THE  TALE  OF  MARK 

IT  was  into  this  atmosphere  of  brawl,  artificially 
heated,  that  the  story  of  Mark's  coolness,  swiftness 
and  self-devotion,  amid  the  sluicing  torrents  and 
slippery  muds  of  the  Kashmir  rains,  eventually  fell. 
But  we  have  to  go  back  a  little,  for,  well  managed 
by  Lise,  Sir  George  told  the  tale  of  Mark  and  the 
mother  and  baby  to  an  audience  of  women  first. 

Lise  had  leant  down  to  the  lion,  on  her  way  out, 
and  invited  him  to  come  early  to  the  drawing-room ; 
so  Sir  George,  who  was  no  great  smoker,  very  natu- 
rally went.  Sir  George  was  weak  with  girls, — he 
knew  plenty  in  London.  He  brought  them  things, 
tucked  away  in  corners  of  his  traveller's  kit,  from 
opposite  ends  of  the  earth.  He  attended  their  wed- 
dings, sure  proof  of  the  true  taste,  nor  did  he  avoid 
their  nurseries  afterwards.  He  liked  them,  as  he 
liked  young  men,  as  being  necessary  realities:  but 
he  was  not  obsessed  by  the  vision  of  cradle-rocking 
exclusively.  He  was  kind,  on  the  present  occasion, 
to  Iveagh's  useful  girl,  who  stuttered  some  of  her 

318 


THE    TALE    OF   MARK  319 

plans  and  aspirations  to  him:  he  was  friendly  and 
flirtatious  with  Adelaide;  only,  having  started  from 
Lise  he  came  back  to  her,  and  settled  down  beside 
her  in  the  sofa-corner,  as  though  for  good. 

"Drat  the  man,"  said  Lady  Oxborough  to  her 
sister-in-law  in  confidence.  "There  he  is  now,  tell- 
ing tales  to  the  Fitzmaurice  girl — like  anything — 
no  one  to  hear!" 

"Who's  he  speaking  of?"  said  the  Duchess,  who 
had  caught  fragments. 

"Mark." 

"Speak  up,"  said  Lise  to  her  companion.  "They 
all  know  him  here, — they're  all  wanting  to  listen  to 
you.  Tell  it  out  loud." 

So  Sir  George  told  it  out  loud,  and  beautifully. 
It  was  a  very  fine  story,  he  thought  himself,  so  he 
failed  it  at  no  point.  It  was  of  general  interest  too, 
as  Lise  said,  for  even  Mrs.  Courtier  had  known 
Mark.  Lise  herself  had  only  picked  up  the  bare 
bones  of  the  incident  from  the  Elphinstones.  The 
Duchess  knew  what  Mark  had  chosen  to  tell  her, 
which  went  for  naught.  But  Sir  George,  by  a 
charming  coincidence,  had  been  on  the  scene. 
"Tied  by  the  leg,"  as  he  put  it,  which  seemed  to 
mean  lamed  in  a  hunting  accident,  and  a  few  bones 
broken,  he  had  lived  in  Mark's  half-drowned  village 


320  HATCHWAYS 

for  several  weeks.  His  fleshly  eye  had  seen  him 
leap  into  the  yellow  torrent,  his  fleshly  ear  had  heard 
the  woman's  scream  as  the  group  of  three  were 
hurled  against  the  bridge.  Facts  seen,  noted  by  an 
orderly  explorer  in  his  journal  the  same  evening, — 
even  the  cunning  young  Captain  could  hardly  escape 
from  that. 

"Pretty  good,"  said  Isabel,  en  route,  to  Gertrude. 
"A  brown  woman,  too, — eh*?"  But  she  got  no  an- 
swer. Gertrude,  of  course,  was  soft  about  Mark. 
Adelaide  was  thoughtful,  seeming  sleepy,  or  sulky: 
Mrs.  Courtier  picking  at  the  bangles  on  her  wrist. 
Heroism,  yes:  even  the  poorest  of  us  know  what 
that  is:  and  modest  heroes,  in  England:  and  the 
tribute  eloquently  paid  by  each  to  each.  ...  As 
for  Iveagh's  little  useful  girl,  it  was  as  well  he  was 
there  no  longer  to  observe  her:  for  she  was  trem- 
bling, crying  very  nearly,  before  the  close.  Had 
she  not  worked  for  that  hero  once,  and  had  he  not 
ignored  her,  civilly,  from  first  to  last,  in  the  manner 
girls  of  her  devoted  kind  love  best?  Iveagh's  in- 
stinct was  right,  such  mementoes  were  worth  more 
than  mathematical  first-classes  to  Miss  Poppy;  and 
having  no  immediate  Mark  to  worship,  she  fixed  her 
worship — a  little  too  eagerly — upon  Sir  George. 

Well,  all  he  had  got  to  do  now, — so  Sir  George 


THE    TALE    OF    MARK  321 

understood  from  Mrs.  Elphinstone, — was  to  say  it 
all  over  again,  just  like  that,  among  the  men-folk. 
The  very  same  words  would  do.  She  wanted  Wick- 
ford  to  hear  particularly,  he  was  so  fond  of  him. 
And  Iveagh.  .  .  . 

"I  see,"  said  Sir  George.  He  seemed  to  be  con- 
sidering. 

"You'll  find  it  come  easy,  the  second  time,"  en- 
couraged Lise. 

"To  be  sure,"  said  Sir  George:  but  he  still  pon- 
dered. 

"And  you'll  point  the  moral,"  said  Lise,  preening 
her  gold  and  silver  plumage.  Mark,  well  polished- 
up  by  people  who  really  knew  his  possibilities,  was 
something  to  have. 

"I'm  not  sure  what  the  moral  is,"  said  Sir  George. 
"That  any  man,  granted  the  sight,  would  not  have 
done  as  much"?  Because  really " 

Lise  looked  upon  him  reproachfully,  trying  to 
steal  her  best  feathers  like  that  "The  point's  not 
what  any  man  would  have  done,  but  what  any  man 
has,  at  the  same  age,"  she  said  severely. 

"Ah."  Sir  George  reckoned.  "Your  husband 
was  nearly  twenty-five." 

"Oh,  bother  you,  don't  be  so  pedantic,"  giggled 
Mrs.  Elphinstone.  "Do  you  deny  it  was  a  thing  of 


322  HATCHWAYS 

beauty  he  did?  Or  that  he  was  very  young  to  be 
where  he  was  at  the  time,  alone  and  unassisted*? 
Well, — point  that." 

"Yes,  but  our  boy's  poor, — he's  denuded.  And 
the  Duchess  did  assist  Mark,  between  ourselves. 
And  suppose,"  said  Sir  George,  "in  two  years'  time, 
ours  was " 

"Well,  he  won't  be,"  said  Lise.  "Except  for 
your  and  my  intervention  in  his  upbringing  at  this 
point, — and  then  he  will." 

Sir  George  considered  again,  both  elbows  on  his 
knees,  gazing  at  the  floor  between  them  with  his 
hands  to  his  temples:  an  odd  position  for  flirting, 
but  perhaps  he  wished  to  conceal  from  Gertrude  that 
he  was. 

"About  my  own  intervention  in  his  upbringing, 
Lise,"  he  said.  "I  feel  quite  confident,  up  to  the 
present.  About  yours " 

"Oh,  do  be  quiet  with  you,"  gurgled  Lise.  "Do 
you  want  her  to  hear*?"  (This  was  the  useful  girl, 
opposite.)  "I've  been  feeling  so  nice  and  easy  my- 
self about  it  all,  thanks  to  Ernestine.  Now  you 

"What  does  Gabriel  think*?"  said  Sir  George. 
Lise  stiffened. 

"I  have  not  asked  him,  this  time.     I  have  no 


THE    TALE    OF    MARK  323 

need,  on  every  occasion  under  the  sun,  of  hearing 
M.  du  Frettay's  ideas." 

"I  see."  Sir  George  got  up,  at  leisure.  "Very 
well,  Lise,  I  leave  you.  I  might  be  giving  you  some 
more  of  mine,  if  I  stayed.  Then  I  mayn't  even 
employ  Gabriel  as  assistant,  among  the  men-folk? 
You  know,  I  might  want  drawing  out." 

"Oh,  Wickford'll  draw  you,"  said  Lise  carelessly. 
"Isn't  it  what  he's  been  trying  to  do,  the  entire 
evening?" 

"Has  he?"     The  lion  looked  surprised. 

"Now  don't  go  pretending  not  to  know  it,"  said 
Lise.  The  lion  looked  conscious. 

"What  do  you  suppose,"  said  Lise,  "you  are  here 
for?"  The  lion  looked  more  conscious  than  ever, 
gazing  down. 

"What  do  you  suppose,"  murmured  Lise,  leaning 
back  her  cinder-coloured  head,  "would  happen  in  a 
place  like  this  if  I  kissed  you?  Presently, — when 
you've  said  your  task?" 

The  lion  said  nothing,  but  he  looked  at  the 
temptress.  Eyes  met, — it  was  a  bargain.  Miss 
Poppy,  that  useful  member  of  society,  was  ashamed 
of  Lise. 

Sir  George,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  had  no  need  of 


HATCHWAYS 

drawing  out,  in  the  unmixed  society  of  the  men- 
folk: especially  when  some  such  amalgamating  proc- 
ess was  badly  required. 

Even  for  a  Holmer  situation,  the  situation  later 
on  that  night  in  the  smoking-room  was  a  stiff  one, — 
it  touched  the  serious,  indeed.  The  Bishop,  trying 
in  a  professional  manner  to  control  Sir  Giles,  was  not 
behaving  very  wisely.  Wickford  was  "sick"  with 
the  Bishop,  and  worn  with  an  anxious  evening,  the 
weight  of  which,  naturally,  had  fallen  upon  him. 
Iveagh,  sicker  than  he  was,  and  with  even  better 
cause,  was  too  obstinate  to  save  the  position  and 
solve  his  brother's  problem  by  retreat,  which  was 
really  the  only  way. 

So  Sir  George,  waking  to  a  real  need,  told  stories, 
with  Gabriel  to  assist :  for  Gabriel  still  lingered  with 
the  house-party.  Friendship  only  detained  him, 
since  Lise  was  stopping  for  the  night  at  Holmer: 
friendship,  and  the  desire,  like  Sir  George,  to  offer 
the  young  host  a  helping  hand. 

Neatly  prompted  by  Gabriel,  who  knew,  by 
means  of  the  lion's  books,  and  his  own  father's  sto- 
ries, most  of  the  background  of  that  remarkable 
career,  Sir  George  told  many  things,  feats  by  field 
and  flood,  good  things  and  evil  things  and  merely 


THE    TALE    OF    MARK  325 

funny  ones,  that  had  struck  him  in  his  experience; 
and  the  Bishop  beamed  resplendent  on  the  pride  of 
England,  and  the  burly  Oxborough  Giles  grew 
silent  by  degrees.  These  were  stories  for  men,  no 
doubt  of  it.  He  looked  at  the  traveller's  wiry  form 
and  brown  face,  ever  more  attentively,  as  the  re- 
cital went  on.  Trenchard  was  given,  Giles  gathered 
from  Gertrude,  to  interfering  at  Holmer,  and  he 
differed  perpetually,  in  what  he  said  and  thought, 
from  Oxborough  fixed  ideas.  Still,  apart  from  say- 
ing and  thinking,  he  had  actually  accomplished  a 
thing  or  two.  For  all  his  cranks,  he  was  a  fellow 
worth  knowing,  worth  quoting  even  in  the  proper 
places, — Isabel  was  right. 

"  'Fore  George,"  swore  Giles,  of  the  Mark  story, 
just  like  Isabel.  "That's  not  bad.  That's  as  good 
as  I've  heard,  for  a  young  fellow.  A  brown  woman 
too.  ...  I'd  never  have  thought  it  of  that  one, 
either,"  he  pushed  on  weightily,  the  company  and 
his  nephews  granting  him  leave.  "Not  but  what  he 
was  good  stuff,  Mark, — but  he  thought  too  much  of 
himself;  I  always  thought  him,  between  ourselves, 
a  bit  of  a  prig." 

"So  did  I,  between  ourselves,"  said  Sir  George. 
"And  so  did  Wickford." 


326  HATCHWAYS 

"Well,  he  was,"  apologised  Wickford,  who  could 
have  produced  plenty  of  other  Mark  stories,  of  a 
different  nature,  if  required. 

"He  was  not,"  said  Iveagh,  as  usual.  It  was  as 
though  Iveagh  could  not  hear  an  opinion  pronounced 
by  three  people  in  turn  without  making  one  against 
them.  One  to  three,  a  sufficient  Suir  minority. 

"Now  then,  water-drinker,"  gibed  his  uncle. 
"You'd  have  avoided  water-drinking,  on  that  oc- 
casion, I  suppose." 

"I  daresay  I  would,"  said  Iveagh,  turning  whiter. 

"It's  my  idea  any  of  us  would  have  jumped " 

began  Sir  George. 

"It's  my  idea  none  of  us  would,"  murmured 
Iveagh. 

"Speak  for  yourself,"  ruffled  Giles.  "Mean  I 
should  not,  or  Wickford?" 

"The  question  is,"  proceeded  Sir  George,  "if  we 
should  have  come  out  again.  It  was  the  cleverness 
got  me,  more  than  the  courage,  which  is  com- 
moner  " 

"Not  so  common  as  you  think,  Trenchard,"  said 
Giles.  "You'd  naturally  make  a  mistake  on  the 
point " 

"Let's  hear  the  end,  Trenchard,"  said  the  Bishop. 

Sir  George,  striving  against  the  spirit  of  brawl, 


THE    TALE    OF    MARK  327 

tried  to  finish  his  story.  The  beauty  of  it,  in  his 
own  view,  was  still  to  come  in  Mark's  ingenious  ex- 
trication of  the  trio  from  a  terribly  tight  place.  The 
fact  of  prompt  leaping,  granted  a  mother  and  child 
in  danger,  whether  brown,  yellow  or  white,  seemed 
to  him  a  commonplace.  It  could  not  seem  so  to 
Giles,  who,  though  plucky  enough,  did  nothing  in- 
stantly. The  Oxboroughs  were  "good  men,"  in  the 
popular  phrase,  but,  given  a  Kashmir  river  in  full 
flood,  the  crucial  minute  would  have  passed  by  sev- 
eral seconds,  by  the  time  Giles  jumped.  He  would 
have  lost  three  lives  (to  do  him  justice)  rather  than 
saved  two,  on  the  occasion.  That  was  the  differ- 
ence, shortly  formulated,  between  Oxborough  Giles 
and  Elphinstone  Mark. 

For  the  moment  the  point  he  dimly  chased,  for 
the  purpose  of  Iveagh's  teaching,  was  more  to  this 
Oxborough.  He  scored  it  successfully. 

"You'd  have  gone  in  on  top,  to  save  Elphinstone, 
wouldn't  you*?  That's  the  kind  of  thing  we  expect 
from  you." 

The  remark  fell  on  silence, — horrified  silence. 
The  Duke  stiffened, — Iveagh  stared.  So  Sir  Giles 
pushed  on,  for  their  benefit,  making  it  clear. 

"Granted  a  pretty  wife  in  the  background " 

"Look  out,  Wick,"  said  Sir  George  quickly:  but 


328  HATCHWAYS 

it  was  Gabriel  who  arose.  "Just  beg  the  boy's  par- 
don, will  you,  Oxborough'?  It  was  a  stupid  thing 
to  say." 

"Oh,  he  needn't  bother,"  said  Wickford,  gazing 
at  the  floor.  His  mother's  brother  had  reached  the 
limit  now,  and  the  Duke,  so  to  speak,  retired.  Still, 
stinkin'  pride,  dating  back  several  centuries  before 
Oxboroughs  were  invented,  enveloped  Wickford  like 
a  garment.  Iveagh  beyond  him  had  made  one  vio- 
lent movement,  but  like  his  brother's,  it  had  come 
to  naught,  though  for  a  different  reason.  The  shock 
of  anger  had  precipitated  the  revolt  of  his  nerves, — 
fortunately.  He  remained  rigid,  helpless  to  all  ap- 
pearance, breathing  a  little  short,  his  eyes  distracted 
with  physical  pain,  as, — Sir  George  would  have 
thought, — the  most  fuddled  ass  could  see. 

"R — right !"  said  du  Frettay  softly.  He  had  laid 
aside  his  cigarette,  and  his  grasp  on  Iveagh's  arms 
seemed  rather  to  encourage  than  to  control.  His 
serene  balance  in  all  situations  was  a  blessing,  not 
for  the  first  time, — a  man  who  always  kept  his 
head. 

"What?'  said  Sir  Giles,  still  groping  for  his  lost 
point.  "Why,  he's  been  a  fool  about  the  girl  for 
ages,  Addy  told  us.  Been  avoiding  temptation  all 


THE    TALE    OF    MARK  329 

the  week, — give  you  my  word  for  it, — liquor  as 
well." 

"You  have  not,  my  friend,"  said  the  Bishop,  and 
cleared  his  throat.  He  was  an  Eton  Bishop,  and 
liked  the  boys.  Giles  (not  that  it  mattered  at  all) 
was  Harrow. 

"Just  listen,"  said  Sir  George,  an  eye  on  Gabriel 
and  Iveagh,  about  whom  he  was  uncertain  equally. 
"Elphinstone  was  not  married,  at  the  time  I'm  talk- 
ing of,  nor  even  engaged.  These  boys  have  always 
been  friends  with  him,  haven't  you,  Wick*?  Iveagh 
spoke  for  him  lately " 

"Mark  can  do  without  our  speakin',"  said  Wick- 
ford. 

"Just  so, — a  good  man.  We  all,  I  think,  grant 
it.  Anyone  counter'?"  ("Ahem!"  said  the  Bishop, 
moved.)  "Well  now,  Oxborough " 

"Not  likely  I  should  beg  his  pardon,  is  it?"  said 
Sir  Giles,  almost  pathetic.  "Boy  like  that, — till 
he  can  show  me  as  good." 

"Must  we  have  examples'?"  asked  Sir  George,  sur- 
prising him  again.  "Wick,  will  you  oblige  us*?" 

"So,"  said  Wickford. 

"Gabriel, — off  the  ground?  Will  you  give  us  a 
testimonial1?" 


330  HATCHWAYS 

"No,"  said  Gabriel. 

Sir  Giles  looked  about  him,  open-mouthed. 
Fetching  in  the  Frenchman,  were  they?  What  in 
the  name  of  — of  the  ground? 

"Off  the  ground,  Oxborough,"  said  Sir  George  un- 
kindly, "and  not  in  the  water, — one  better  than 
Mark." 

"Ahem!"  said  the  Eton  Bishop,  getting  there. 
He  became  amused. 

"I  should  be  extr — remely  happy,"  said  M. 
du  Frettay,  with  a  singular  gleam  of  his  blue 
eyes,  "any  time  he  is  at  liberty,  to  conduct  Sir 
Giles." 

"What?"  said  Giles.  "Where?"  He  gaped  yet 
more  at  the  young  man's  expressive  gesture, — up- 
wards, to  the  empyrean.  He  was  a  very  dramatic 
young  man,  painfully  so.  Everybody  in  the  room 
was  now  looking  at  Giles  attentively,  earnestly; — 
even  the  Bishop.  What  was  the  sense  of  it?  What 
were  they  all  playing  at?  It  was  like  a  night- 
mare. 

"Should  you  care  to  follow  your  nephew,"  ex- 
plained the  French  young  man,  in  a  mild  tone,  and 
excellent  English.  "I  am  qualified  to  assist,  I  as- 
sure you.  Tenez — "  he  passed  a  card. 

A  card, — worse  and  worse.     That  used  to  stand 


THE    TALE    OF   MARK  331 

for  a  challenge.  What  outlandish  tricks  were  these? 
Giles  groped  for  a  solution,  regarding  it.  It  had 
a  name  printed,  the  young  man's  name  and  letters 
after;  or  rather  words  shortened  up,  with  stops  be- 
tween. The  name  of  a  new  society, — very  new. 
Ass.  Aer.  .  .  .  Aerl 

There  is  an  expression,  in  Gabriel's  language, 
called  "raising  the  heart,"  which  does  not  mean  that 
exactly.  It  stands  for  a  sensation  from  which  none 
of  us,  even  the  bravest,  are  exempt,  especially  after 
a  large  meal,  when  faced  with  some  material  dis- 
turbance. Sir  Giles,  on  this  occasion,  had  dined 
well :  he  loathed  the  sea  always :  but  he  would  sooner, 
any  day,  have  entered  a  Channel  boat  than  a  lighter- 
than-air-boat,  even  the  commonest  dirigible.  As  for 
a  heavier-than-air Something  rose  in  him,  a  lit- 
tle lower  than  the  heart  while  he  strove  with  the 
mystic  words  on  Gabriel's  card.  His  complexion 
showed  it.  He  was,  however,  getting  to  the  facts, 
though  painfully, — when  he  discovered  everybody 
laughing!  Everybody,  the  boy  Iveagh  too.  This 
finished  Giles,  for,  having  himself  scored  the  jest 
of  the  evening,  what  was  there  for  them  to  be 
amused  at? 

"Drop  it,  du  Frettay,"  said  the  Duke,  gathering 
himself  out  of  collapse,  from  many  causes.  "Oh, 


HATCHWAYS 

Lord,  you're  a  caution ! — and  let  the  kid  go,  he's  all 
right.  Have  some  whisky,  Iveagh,  and  don't  be  a 
little  ass " 

"I  will  not,"  said  Iveagh:  but  he  looked  better, 
far,  for  du  Frettay's  happy  diversion.  Such  a  man 
for  ideas!  It  did  him  more  good  than  whisky,  or 
brandy  either.  If  they  could, — if  they  only  could 
in  combination,  manage  it.  ...  He  kept  hold  of 
du  Frettay's  arm,  lovingly,  though  du  Frettay  had 
long  let  go  of  him. 

"I'll  have  a  drop,  when  they're  gone,"  he  mur- 
mured in  strict  confidence,  protected  by  the  general 
move  outward  to  the  stairs. 

"Good  child,"  said  Gabriel,  in  his  own  tongue, 
approving:  and  picked  up  his  cigar  again. 

"Very  neat,  young  man,  on  my  word,"  said  the 
Eton  Bishop,  a  hand  on  his  shoulder,  as  he  passed 
to  the  door. 

"Talk  of  extrication  from  tight  places "  mur- 
mured Sir  George,  as  he  passed  in  turn. 

"Your  Church  is  not  half-bad,"  said  Gabriel  to 
Wickford,  having  saluted  the  Bishop.  "I  am  grati- 
fied to  have  met  it " 

"Don't  go  by  that,"  said  Wickford,  hastily. 
"Thanks,  I  say.  What  on  earth  we'd  have  done 


THE    TALE    OF    MARK  333 

without  you — "  He  laughed  hopelessly  again. 
"Good  night." 

"After  all,"  resumed  du  Frettay  in  French  to 
Iveagh,  dealing  capably  with  the  drinks  when  they 
were  solitary.  "Whoever  it  was  you  promised  could 
not  have  reckoned  on  a  provocation  like  that." 

"No,  she  could  not,"  agreed  Iveagh,  dreamily 
watching  him.  Such  sense  in  the  man,  too, — one 
had  happily  no  need  of  the  effort  of  thought  in  his 
society. 

"And  to  think,"  ejaculated  du  Frettay,  pushing 
across  the  glass  he  had  prepared,  "that  the  hands  are 
tied,  in  your  country !  Sacr-r-r " 

"They  were,"  said  Iveagh. 

"I  don't  mean  that.  It  need  not  have  been  you, 
in  any  case.  Nor  your  brother,  for  that  matter.  In 
the  case  of  an  uncle,"  said  Gabriel  with  a  reminis- 
cence, "the  Prayer  Book  forbids  it " 

"It's  not  the  Prayer  Book, — that's  marryin',"  said 
Iveagh,  who  understood  French  very  well,  though 
he  did  not  often  choose  to  speak  it.  "I  say,"  he 
confided,  at  a  later  stage,  with  his  eyes  shut.  "That 
was  a  fairly  rippin'  thing  about  Mark." 


XIX 

THE  WORST  OVER 

THE  Suir  brothers  had  a  veiled  debate  the  following 
morning,  on  the  subject  of  Miss  Ryeborn's  coming 
to  Holmer:  interesting  as  character  to  anyone  who 
knew  them,  but  certainly  not  interesting  in  anything 
it  betrayed  to  the  world  at  large.  It  happened  in 
Wickford's  sanctum  during  the  peaceful  period  of 
the  morning  while  the  Bishop  was  looking  about  for 
people  to  take  to  church.  Iveagh  proposed,  in  the 
formula  known  to  them,  that  Wick  should  lay  him- 
self out  to  please  the  girl,  spare  her  the  sight  of  his 
uncle,  and  have  her  to  tea  comfortably  in  his  pri- 
vate room.  Wickford  conveyed  in  the  same  lan- 
guage that  he  thought  his  mother,  with  Addy  actually 
in  the  house,  would  not  stand  it.  Iveagh  adum- 
brated that  it  could  not  matter  if  she  did  not.  She 
deserved  it, — he  sketched  that  also.  Wickford 
thereupon  turned  his  back  completely, — it  had  been 
only  half-turned  hitherto, — and  let  fall  the  gen- 
eral idea  that  he  ought  to  get  some  writing  done,  and 

334 


THE    WORST    OVER  335 

if  Iveagh  had  any  relics  of  decency  he  would  free  his 
hands  for  the  afternoon,  and  see  to  the  girl  him- 
self. Iveagh  sniffed  at  this,  suggesting  he  had 
meant  to  do  something  quite  different;  however, 
Wickford  grasped  he  might  condescend  to  something 
of  the  sort  if,  before  three  o'clock,  Wick  saw  no 
other  way  out  of  the  hole. 

Other  people  besides  his  brother  found  Iveagh  a 
handful  that  Sunday;  for,  though  he  walked  down 
to  Hatchways  with  Sir  George  in  the  afternoon,  con- 
fided him  to  Mrs.  Redgate,  and  carried  off  Bess,  all 
in  very  capable  style,  Sir  George's  early  remarks  to 
his  hostess  were  in  no  sense  flattering  to  him.  Sir 
George  remained  for  some  time  after  landing  at 
Hatchways  insensible  of  the  honour  lately  done  him, 
— anything  but  obliged. 

"He's  a  young  cub,"  said  Sir  George.  "He's  as 
surly  as  a  hedgehog,  all  spikes.  I  can't  do  anything 
with  him.  He  can  go  where  he  likes,  for  me."  Er- 
nestine smiled.  "All  very  well  your  laughing,"  said 
Sir  George,  "but  I  haven't  the  time  to  waste  he 
seems  to  think.  I  let  him  know  it  was  yes  or  no 
to  come  with  me  yesterday,  by  Wickford.  Take  it 
or  leave  it,  hey?  Perhaps  that  was  unwise."  Er- 
nestine looked  serious.  "Anyhow  I  can't  change  my 
habits  all  in  a  moment  for  a  young — ruffian's 


336  HATCHWAYS 

crotchets.  That's  the  way  I  do  business,  and  he'd 
better  know." 

"Of  course,"  said  Ernestine.  "Is  the  sun  worry- 
ing you*?" 

"Lord  no,  I  love  it.  Wonderful  weather, — won- 
derful to  be  here  at  last, — where  were  we*?  Yes, — 
well,  to-day  I  led  off  with  soft-sawder,  persuading. 
Perhaps  that  was  unwise  again.  Anyhow  my  lord 
had  his  nose  in  the  air,  looking  about,  not  taking  any, 
for  a  good  half  of  the  way.  About  the  Lodge,"  said 
Sir  George,  "I  lost  my  temper  and  said — personally 
I  could  do  without  him  very  well.  Then  he  turned 
pleasanter,  if  you  call  it  so,  and  let  me  know  he 
wouldn't  be  sorry,  granted  he  could  be  certain  of 
being  free.  Free!  ...  So  I  said,  perhaps  a  little 
testily,  what  the — what  on  earth  did  he  propose  to 
do,  then.  And  blest,"  said  Sir  George,  indignantly, 
"if  he  hadn't  got  another  post  up  his  sleeve, — paid 
post, — African  too, — it  gave  me  quite  a  shock!" 

"Is  that  the  Morocco  one*?"  said  Ernestine. 

"You're  in  it,  are  you?  Ah,"  said  Sir  George, 
concentrating,  "but  I  know  who's  at  the  bottom  of 
that.  The  place  showed  me.  Only  if  the  du  Fret- 
tays  think  they're  going  to  come  their  paid  posts  over 
me,  they're  mistaken.  You  can  tell  him  so.  Mo- 


THE    WORST    OVER  337 

rocco  indeed!  Why,  it's  the  place  of  all  places  I 
want  to  go  back  to  myself!  The  idea  of  that  little 
beggar  .  .  .  Anyhow,  I  let  Iveagh  know.  I  don't 
propose,"  said  Sir  George  firmly,  "to  be  cut  out  by 
the  du  Frettays  at  this  time  of  day.  So  I  took  a 
kind  of  racy  line  with  the  youngster — you  know — 
ragging  him  hard  about  paid  work  and  the  peerage. 
I  suppose  he'd  drop  his  title?" — He  diverted  to  her 
of  a  sudden. 

"Nothing  would  induce  him,"  said  Ernestine,  dim- 
pling again.  She  was  very  happy,  shyly  delighted, 
to  have  her  lion  at  last,  and  her  young  looks  showed 
it. 

"Oh,  Lord, — well,  I  shall  never  get  to  the  bottom 
of  them!  Anyhow  I  ragged  my  nastiest,  and  he 
took  it  as  usual.  Never  knew  a  boy  with  a  nicer 
temper  really — ahem! — because,  after  all,  it  isn't 
his  fault.  Neither  peerage  nor  poverty  either, — he'd 
every  right  to  be  independent  two  years  back.  .  .  . 
And  so,"  finished  Sir  George,  "we  got  to  Hatchways 
gate." 

"And  after  that*?"  said  Mrs.  Redgate,  removing 
the  Pickle,  like  a  burr,  from  the  best  velvet  sofa 
cushion. 

"Well,  there  isn't  much  time  after  that,  is  there? 


338  HATCHWAYS 

However,  I  gathered  my  lord'd  come,  on  certain  con- 
ditions. Now,"  said  Sir  George,  suddenly  mild,  "I 
had  an  impression,  if  I  took  an  inexperienced  lad 
along  to  Zanzibar,  I  should  make  the  conditions  my- 
self." 

"I  should  think  so!"  said  Ernestine:  just  as  she 
had  once  said — "The  idea !"  Absently,  as  she  spoke, 
she  removed  the  Pickle  from  the  velvet  cushion  a 
second  time.  He  was  strictly  not  allowed  there, 
even  by  Bess. 

"Well,  as  to  his  conditions, — not  that  I  should 
adopt  them, — the  chief  is,  to  keep  it  dark  till  the 
end,  if  he  consents,  from  his  relations.  Well — 
that's  Giles,  I  gather,  after  last  night." 

"Gertrude  too,"  said  Ernestine. 

"No !  But  why  should  he  keep  things  dark  from 
Gertrude?  What's  up  there,  hey?  What's  she 
been  doing  that  he  should  speak,  or  not  speak,  of  her 
as  he  does?"  Mrs.  Redgate  shook  her  head  merely, 
looking  despondent.  "But  I  will  know,"  challenged 
Sir  George.  "She's  my  oldest  friend,  and  I  care 
for  her.  She  used  to  be  as  anxious  as  we  were, 
surely  she  was!  Wasn't  she?  Why  wasn't  she? 
It's  only  she  likes  Wick  best, — not  much  wonder. 
The  boy's  trying,  at  times.  Cross  as  a  little  crab  to- 
day." 


THE    WORST    OVER  339 

"They  both  can  be,"  said  Ernestine,  once  more 
displacing  the  persistent  Pickle.  "Then  you  have 
to  manage  them  backwards.  .  .  .  Often  it  means 
he's  not  been  well." 

"Does  it4?  Backwards,"  said  Sir  George  after  a 
pause.  "Yes,  that's  what  it  comes  to.  Only  is  isn't 
hard  to  do,  with  either  of  them.  Is  it?  Being  the 
kind  they  are." 

Having  so  answered  the  first  part  of  her  remark, 
he  waited,  thinking.  So  did  Ernestine.  And  while 
the  persons  in  the  room  were  thus  absorbed,  the 
Pickle  sprang  silently  upon  the  velvet  cushion  again. 
Being  thus  easily  victorious, — for  he  would  have 
jumped  back  thirty-nine  times  if  necessary, — the 
Pickle  curled  his  grey  paws  under  his  chest,  and 
watched  them,  not  malicious,  but  benignly  blinking. 
For  it  was  not  possible  to  his  nature  to  believe, 
having  his  present  will  and  finding  comfort,  he 
should  ever  be  disturbed  again. 

"That's  a  pretty  creature,"  said  Sir  George  pen- 
sively. "By  the  way,  you  know,  that's  another 
bother,  with  Gertrude.  Health, — I'd  an  idea  you 
still  went  to  a  boy's  mother  for  a  testimonial  as  to 
that.  What's  she  doing  having  boys  otherwise? 
It's  important." 

"It's  essential,"  said  Ernestine. 


340  HATCHWAYS 

"She  talked  to  me,"  said  Sir  George,  folding  his 
arms,  "about  the  schoolmistress.  It  seems,  she's  been 
having  a  sore  throat." 

"Yes, — laryngitis,"  said  Ernestine.  "Poor 
Renie." 

"Confound  her,  what  does  her  throat  matter1?" 

"A  good  deal,"  said  Ernestine,  "to  the  children. 
She  wants  her  voice  all  the  time.  Iveagh  doesn't 
need  his  head  at  a  dinner-party  half  so  much " 

"He  did  before  the  evening  was  out,"  said  Sir 
George.  "Oh,  by  the  way,  you  know  all  that*? 
Who's  been  gabbing, — Gabriel  ?  Of  course  it  was ! 
I'd  uncommonly  have  liked  to  knock  the  sot  down 
when  he  insulted  them,"  said  Sir  George.  "How- 
ever, we  all  did  our  duty  by  Gertrude,  and  Gabriel 
cleared  the  score.  Did  he  tell  you  that4?  Of  course 
he  did !  I  say, — do  you  like  Gabriel  *?" 

"Yes." 

"I  thought  you  would,"  said  Sir  George,  con- 
tented. "So  does  she."  Pause.  The  intervals,  of 
course,  were  well-filled,  at  Hatchways.  In  fact, 
talking  fast  as  Sir  George  had  been  doing,  he  had 
really  been  wasting  time.  Now  he  spent  it  wisely, 
looking  about  him,  the  while  the  tea  entered  left 
centre,  and  Mrs.  Redgate  tracked  her  late  thoughts 
through  to  an  end. 


THE    WORST    OVER  341 

"Wonderful  this  is,"  he  said  again.  "Nice  the 
garden  looks.  Same  old  china.  Rather  a  dreadful 
lot  of  people  up  there,  you  know."  He  resumed. 
"Well,  aren't  you  going  to  tell  me  anything*?" 

"About  Gertrude?     I'd  rather  not." 

"He's  not  offended  her, — the  little  lad?  Said 
what  he  thought  too  freely?  Chaffed  her? 
Cheeked  her?  Come  on!" 

"I  hardly  know,"  she  said.     "Very  likely." 

"Don't  you  see  her?  Don't  you  see  them  to- 
gether?" pursued  Sir  George.  "Ernestine — I  beg 
your  pardon " 

"Why  not?"  she  said  with  a  smile. 

"I  never  have,  to  your  face.  However,  if  you 
don't  mind  it. — Are  you  finished  with  Gertrude?  I 
ask  for  her  sake.  Really  broken?  She  hinted  it." 

"I  hardly  know,"  she  said  again,  looking  con- 
scious, and  unhappy.  "If  she  hinted  it,  I  suppose 
it  is  so.  There's  been  some  misunderstanding,  over 
the  children;  but  I  can't,  at  least  at  present,  put  it 
right.  I'm  sorry  I  can't, — think  I  could  really,  if 
she'd  ever  let  me  come  near  enough, — but  that's  it," 
said  Ernestine. 

"Ha!  That's  it  with  Wickford  too,  Manner — 
mannerism — it  distresses  him.  I've  seen  it." 

"I  think  she  distresses  Iveagh  worse,"  said  Ernes- 


342  HATCHWAYS 

tine.  "I  think  she  must  have  done  it,  long  ago,  past 
bearing.  Quite  long,  when  he  was  little.  I  doubt, 
now,  if  she  will  ever  get  him  back."  She  lowered 
her  head.  "I  doubt  if  she  wants  to." 

"Ha!     You  know  I  feared  it." 

There  was  silence  anew.  Neither  of  these  two 
persons  owned  children,  but  there  they  were,  quite 
in  agreement  as  to  how  mothers  should  behave. 
Perhaps  the  Pickle  was  satirical,  really  as  he  blinked 
at  them, — or  simply  soporific,  one  can  never  know. 

"Odd,  for  a  woman,"  said  Sir  George.  "Yet  it 
happens,  naturally.  Or  unnaturally.  Anyhow,  it 
occurs.  ...  I  say,  one  would  have  thought  she 
would  have  been  interested,  such  a  romance  as  he's 
had !  And,  though  I  say  it,  such  a  heroine !  Does 
she  realise  Lise*?" 

"Not  as  Iveagh  does.  Nor  Wick  either,  for  that 
matter." 

"Little  Lise.  .  .  .  They're  jolly  nice  lads.  But 
I  say,"  said  Sir  George,  who  was  boyish  in  this  com- 
pany, "you'd  have  thought  a  woman  would  be  in- 
terested, wouldn't  you1?  Common  interest.  After 
all,  she's  had  her  romance." 

"Yes,"  agreed  Ernestine.  "But  then,  she  liked 
the  hero." 


THE    WORST    OVER  343 

"But  this  one's  like  that  one.     Isn't  he?" 

"Perhaps  that's  why." 

"Ernestine,  that's  a  dark  saying."  She  dimpled 
again,  in  her  sweet  fashion,  and  leant  sidelong,  one 
elbow  on  the  couch.  Since  he  was  being  a  boy,  she 
was  a  girl  too,  for  the  moment,  her  attitude  showed 
it.  "Oughtn't  she  to  like  him  better,  because  he's 
like  her  hero, — because  he  really  is." 

"One  weakness  in  a  life  is  enough  for  Gertrude." 

"You  never  mean  she's  ashamed  of  it !  No,  look 
here,  really,  that's  too  hard.  .  .  .  Besides,  there's 
Mark, — she  was  weak  about  him.  Ah,  now  I've 
done  you,"  resumed  Sir  George  after  a  minute. 
"What  about  that*?  Why  Mark  in  front  of  her 
own  boys?  Why  the  devil  Mark?" 

"Oh,  stop  examining  me!  She  cared  for  Mark 
like  a  protege, — like  a  production.  It's  not  a  bit 
the  same." 

"You  care  for  Iveagh  like  a  production,"  said  Sir 
George,  gazing  immutably  at  her.  "Like  a  pro- 
tege anyhow,  you  must.  Is  he  your  Mark?" 

"Goodness  no!  Poor  boy."  She  laughed  sud- 
denly. "It's  only  he  would  hate  it  so,"  she  ex- 
plained. 

"You  don't  make  an  idol  of  him, — a  model?" 


344  HATCHWAYS 

"Goodness  no, — how  could  anybody?"  Pause, 
while  she  watched  the  blue  dragon  china,  the  smile 
dying  on  her  face. 

"Ernestine,"  challenged  Sir  George,  "you  never 
cared  for  the  Captain." 

"I  didn't  much,"  said  Ernestine  shamelessly.  She 
added — "He  may  have  improved." 

"No,  no.  Lise  has  improved.  You  ask  Ger- 
trude." 

"Pish!"  said  Mrs.  Redgate's  expression  at  the 
blue  dragons, — it  really  did.  Sir  George  observed 
the  expression  contentedly.  He  often  wondered  if 
it  was  Ernestine  who  was  Hatchways,  or  Hatchways 
Ernestine.  He  now  decided  it  was  Ernestine  who 
was  Hatchways, — her  face  was  so  full  of  character, 
— originality,  one  might  almost  say.  And  it  may 
have  been  the  charming  attitude,  but  she  seemed  to 
him  very  young. 

"Haven't  you  got  a  model  young  man*?"  he  chaffed 
her.  "Can't  you  show  as  good  as  Gertrude*?  Come 
now, — at  your  age !" 

She  remained  silent,  still  gazing,  though  the  col- 
our just  dawned  in  her  face.  Mark  indeed!  .  .  . 
Then  she  raised  herself  from  her  elbow  rather 
quickly,  for  the  Hatchways  gentlemen  came  in  at 
the  door. 


THE    WORST    OVER  345 

"Tiens,  le  malin!"  exclaimed  the  younger  of  the 
Hatchways  gentlemen ;  and  before  he  realised  it,  the 
Pickle  was  raised,  cushion  and  all,  swung  about,  and 
projected  like  a  bomb  off  his  throne  through  the  win- 
dow into  the  garden.  Thus  did  M.  du  Frettay  dis- 
close at  once  his  deep  knowledge  of  the  rules  of  that 
household,  and  his  care  for  Mrs.  Redgate's  property; 
and  thus,  not  for  the  first  time,  was  the  Pickle  made 
aware  of  French  impulsiveness,  vigilance,  and  deter- 
mination,— which  he  loathed,  because  they  resem- 
bled his  own.  Twice  he  walked  round  the  garden, 
shaking  his  tail  in  bitterness  of  spirit :  twice  he  swore 
eternal  enmity  to  all  things  French: — before  he  saw 
a  sparrow  and  forgot  about  it. 

Meanwhile,  peace  began  to  be  patched  up  on 
Holmer  terraces,  all  unaware  to  these  debaters.  And 
how?  How,  but  by  way  of  the  schoolmistress's 
sore  throat. 

Bess  told  the  Duchess,  shyly,  that  owing  to  poor 
Renie,  who  was  nearly  at  the  end  of  her  resources, 
Ernestine  had  persuaded  that  conscientious  young 
woman  to  give  the  children  a  whole  morning  off  on 
Tuesday,  and  take  them  out  for  the  day,  provided 
always  the  weather  remained  like  this.  Renie,  that 
very  morning  after  church,  had  gone  under  to  Bess's 


346  HATCHWAYS 

counsel  and  coaxing.  She  had  agreed,  on  condition, 
first,  that  the  parents  were  warned :  and  second,  that 
the  whole  of  this  delightful  and  exceptional  holiday 
should  be  known  to  her  flock  as  Nature  Study. 

The  Duchess  listened  charmed, — literally 
charmed, — to  Miss  Ryeborn's  recital.  The  whole 
thing  bore  the  badge  of  Renie,  the  hall-mark  of  her 
practised  utility,  so  plainly.  It  may  have  been 
partly  owing  to  Wickford's  absence,  but  the  Duchess 
began,  during  the  dialogue,  to  think  Miss  Ryeborn 
rather  a  pretty  girl.  She  also,  for  the  sake  of  her 
resemblance  to  Ernestine,  forgave  Ernestine  another 
stage,  though  there  was  still  much,  very  much,  to  be 
explained  between  them. 

Next  Bess,  yet  more  shyly,  wondered  if  the  Duch- 
ess would  be  at  liberty  to  come  with  them"? 

Well,  no, — she  could  not  promise  that,  precisely. 
She  had  "things"  on  Tuesday,  she  had  "people." 
Still,  for  all  her  things  and  people,  towards  such  a 
laudable  object  as  Nature  Study,  the  Duchess  was 
gracious,  granting  what  she  could.  The  run  of  the 
park  was  as  nothing,  that  was  dropped  absently, 
while  she  looked  about  for  means  of  more  material 
helpfulness.  So  seeking,  her  maternal  eye  fell  on 
Iveagh,  and  at  once  she  offered  him.  His  knowledge 
of  plants 


THE    WORST    OVER  347 

General  mirth,  to  her  surprise,  greeted  the  sug- 
gestion. Even  the  Bishop  laughed,  himself  an  in- 
structor in  the  past.  The  Ryeborn  girl  laughed, 
though  she  coloured  simultaneously.  Iveagh  al- 
lowed himself  nearly  a  whole  smile.  His  mother 
had  seldom  made  such  a  good  joke  in  his  memory,  so 
she  needed  to  be  encouraged. 

"So  fond  of  the  kiddies,  aren't  you,  Iveagh'?" 
jested  Adelaide. 

"Help  the  schoolmarm,"  jested  Sam.  "Chances 
are,  those  kids  know  more  than  you." 

"They  know  a  perfectly  terrible  amount,"  said  the 
Ryeborn  girl. 

"Irene  is  an  excellent  teacher,"  said  the  Duchess. 

"Sam  shall  tell  'em  about  birds,"  said  Iveagh, 
pleasantly  extending  his  mother's  helpfulness.  "We 
won't  let  on  he  uses  'em  to  make  holes  in.  Wick 
shall  tell  'em  about — snails.  No,  he  can't. 
About " 

Fish, — fossils, — architecture,  were  suggested  as 
subjects  for  Wickford  by  a  frivolous  world.  Iveagh 
denied  his  knowledge  of  the  former,  and —  "There 
isn't  any,"  said  Sam,  of  the  last. 

"No  architecture  in  the  park,  Sam?"  cried  Mrs. 
Elphinstone.  "What  about  the  Belvedere?" 

The  Duchess  strove  against  the  tide  of  frivolity, 


348  HATCHWAYS 

making  sensible  suggestions.  She  proposed  a  place 
not  far  from  the  Belvedere,  where  there  was  a  camp 
and  shed  used  of  old  for  holiday  picnics.  The  shed 
was  broken  down,  but  it  would  provide  a  shelter  in 
case  of  rain.  Her  spirit,  from  Holmer,  would  watch 
over  them.  She  would  send  a  tarpaulin,  a  tea-ket- 
tle if  necessary.  No,  tea  would  be  too  late  for 
Renie.  Deep  within  her,  owing  to  this  link  of 
Renie,  the  Duchess  began  to  long  to  go  down  to 
Hatchways,  and  see  Ernestine  about  it.  Girls  were 
so  little  good.  .  .  .  However,  she  made  the  best  of 
Bess.  She  was  shy,  the  Duchess  was  pleased  to 
note,  in  Holmer  company;  and  what  was  more,  she 
did  not,  in  any  uncomfortable  degree,  remember 
things. 

About  and  around  the  pair,  the  dropping  fire  of 
unpractical  commentary  proceeded.  The  subject, 
for  a  Sunday,  was  good  enough.  Lady  Oxborough 
had  produced  the  disturbing  theory  that  architecture 
was  not  Nature  Study.  The  Bishop,  in  his  Sunday 
mood,  contributed  that  the  proper  study  of  mankind 
was  man,  and  our  monuments  were  chiefly  to  be  val- 
ued as  reflecting  the  hand  that  made  them.  Lise 
said  that  the  Bishop  had  not  seen  the  Belvedere,  or 
he  could  never  be  so  hard  on  his  fellow-creatures. 
Sam  required  merely  to  know  if  Mrs.  Redgate  was 


THE    WORST    OVER  349 

giving  the  feed;  because  if  so,  he  and  Iveagh  would 
come  along  and  study  the  nature  of  it,  willingly. 

In  fact,  everybody  got  such  facts  and  such  fun 
out  of  the  situation  as  they  required.  As  for  ren- 
dezvous, the  Belvedere  itself  sufficed  as  an  objec- 
tive. In  a  forest-ring  of  half  a  mile  from  that 
blameless  erection,  given  a  squeaking  pack  of  kids, 
the  gentlemen,  if  they  chose,  could  find  the  party 
easily.  It  is  probable,  but  for  the  food,  and  the 
girls,  Iveagh  and  Sam  would  have  avoided  the  oc- 
casion, which  was  too  like  a  school-treat  to  move 
their  taste.  Even  as  it  was,  they  were  too  wise  to 
promise.  With  the  weather  like  this,  they  might  be 
wanted  in  quite  another  direction.  Still,  they  were 
young,  and  picnics  (such  as  Mrs.  Redgate  manages) 
have  their  points.  Renie,  whatever  Lise  might  say 
of  her,  had  her  points  as  well.  As  for  Miss  Rye- 
born,  Sam  at  least  put  her  under  Mrs.  Redgate's 
wing,  and  was  quite  incapable  of  saying  a  rude  or 
critical  word  about  her.  Added  to  which,  Sam  was 
entirely  and  utterly  prostrated,  that  afternoon,  by 
the  portrait  of  Lise. 

Iveagh,  in  default  of  Wick,  who  remained  rig- 
idly in  retirement,  did  all  that  was  expected  of  him, 
as  he  could  quite  well  at  need.  He  dodged  his 
mother  and  his  uncle,  had  a  restricting  hand  on  Sam, 


350  HATCHWAYS 

Mrs.  Courtier,  and  the  Bishop, — though  Lise  helped 
him  ably  in  the  latter  case, — and  he  gave  the  three 
girls  on  his  premises  (for,  of  course,  Addy  counted) 
entertainment,  food,  flirtation  behind  the  Bishop's 
back,  and  a  very  nice  time.  Nobody,  in  short,  could 
have  complained  of  him  seriously:  which  really,  in 
the  Sunday  afternoon  atmosphereiof  Holmer,  steeped 
and  re-steeped  in  varnish  of  all  sorts,  was  creditable. 
Iveagh  reckoned  it  up  himself  as  "about  right" 
when  Lise,  with  all  her  pretty  remembered  airs  and 
gestures,  took  to  the  piano-stool  finally:  and  when 
his  mother,  of  all  miraculous  symptoms  of  serenity 
and  slackness,  went  to  sleep. 

About  when  the  light  failed,  Iveagh  came  in  from 
the  stable,  where  he  had  been  "tucking  up"  Emer, 
and  returned  to  Wickford's  study,  whence  he  had 
issued  primed  to  represent  him,  in  the  first  hours 
of  the  day.  He  broke  in  carelessly  in  his  manner, 
and  finding  a  nice  fire, — things  were  apt  to  be  very 
complete  and  tasteful  in  his  quarters  premises  to- 
wards the  dinner  hour, — he  collapsed  into  the  chair 
alongside,  and  lay  pensive,  reviewing  his  feat  of 
arms. 

"Got  a  minute*?"  said  the  lordly  author:  it  being 
obvious  by  Iveagh's  attitude  that  he  had  several. 

"No,"  said  Iveagh,  suspecting  figures:  however, 


THE    WORST    OVER  351 

he  soon  held  out  his  hand.  On  and  off  he  had 
helped  a  good  deal  in  that  book's  compilation.  It 
was  particularly  uninteresting,  to  any  but  the  eco- 
nomical expert,  but  Wickford  loved  it.  Iveagh  al- 
lowed for  his  love,  though  his  own  book,  one  of  these 
days,  was  going  to  be  a  better  thing.  Nor  would 
he  slave  Wick  to  do  sums  for  him,  when  he  was 
sleepy  after  stable-work, — no  chance!  For  the 
time,  being  wanted,  he  gave  the  statistical  pages  his 
attention,  and  checked  results  with  a  beautifully 
sharpened  pencil,  handed  him  by  Wick. 

"Did  you  get  through,  out  there,  without  scrap- 
pin'?"  his  Grace  asked  presently. 

"We  did,"  said  Iveagh.     "She  played." 

"She"  was  Lise,  naturally:  no  one  else  played. 
That  she  had  done  so  was  good  hearing,  to  Wick- 
ford,  for  she  did  not  always  consent.  It  needed  the 
mood :  but  he  supposed  the  mood  of  imminent  part- 
ing from  Hatchways  was  favourable.  When  Iveagh 
said  "played,"  he  meant  playing.  That  was  a 
thing  that  passed  time  and  saved  tempers  as  well, 
real  "playing"  from  Lise. 

"It  was  kind  of  her,"  said  Wickford  gravely. 
"Did  she  not  sing?" 

His  brother  shook  his  head.  At  the  end  of  the 
column  he  remarked — 


352  HATCHWAYS 

"She  says  that's  gone  to  glory,  nowadays.  She 
says  she  keeps  her  singin'  for  Mark." 

Wickf  ord  whistled,  leaning  back.  "She  ought  not," 
he  observed,  "to  say  things  like  that  in  public." 

"It's  nothin'  to  Mother,"  said  Iveagh,  dreamily, 
"if  Mark  has  the  ear  of  an  elephant.  Granted  a 
good  moustache  on  the  man,  it's  nothin'  to  her." 

An  interlude  of  respective  industry  ensued. 
Iveagh,  on  the  whole,  was  the  more  industrious. 
Wickford  began  to  prefer  talking.  The  Duke  had 
had  a  prolonged  period  of  unusual  quietness  that 
day,  of  real  privacy  such  as  was  his  right,  so  he  had 
been  missing  Iveagh's  interruption,  for  some  time 
before  it  came.  Iveagh  was  always  interrupting 
others,  being  lawless.  He  spent  his  life  in  it.  One 
side  of  Wickford  liked  peace,  respect,  and  stateli- 
ness:  the  other  enjoyed  Iveagh  and  variety. 

His  inviting  attitude  had  no  effect  on  "  the  kid," 
who  was  now  pencilling  things  all  about  the  place, 
on  the  back  of  one  of  Wickford's  magazines.  He 
liked  playing  with  figures,  by  nature :  only  he  looked 
weary  and  pallid  still,  and  it  occurred  to  Wick  that 
such  games,  though  useful,  are  trying  to  the  brain. 

"Did  you  see  the  girls  home*?"  he  asked:  meaning 
the  two  Elizabeths,  bound  for  Hatchways. 

"I  did  not,"  said  Iveagh,  after  the  usual  interval. 


THE    WORST    OVER  353 

He   added,   as  he  noted   a   total — "To  mention." 

"Till  where  did  you  take  them1?"  said  Wickford, 
letting  his  language  go.  After  all,  he  had  been  com- 
posing excellent  sentences  for  hours. 

"To  the  trees,"  said  Iveagh.  "After  that,  they 
did  not  need  my  squiring — and  they  let  me  know  it." 

"Indeed,"  said  Wickford,  curious.  "What  did 
she  say?" 

"She  said  they  wished  to  talk  of  me,  which  they're 
welcome,"  said  Iveagh,  occupied. 

No  question  again  which  that  "she"  was.  Wick- 
ford smiled.  Iveagh  in  the  chair  was  smiling  also, 
or  nearly;  he  did  not  quite  set  it  free. 

"That  little  beggar,  she  says  the  first  thing," 
murmured  the  Duke,  digesting  by  degrees  his  enter- 
tainment. 

"Mark'll  have  suffered  from  that,"  said  Iveagh: 
and  then  yawned,  and  covered  his  eyes  with  his 
hand.  "Tschah,  that's  wrong, — oh,  the  devil's  in 
it,"  was  his  next  remark. 

Wickford  got  up,  with  decision.  "Drop  it, 
kiddy,"  he  said  briefly,  in  his  English  tone,  and  ex- 
tended a  hand. 

"What  for?"  said  Iveagh,  hanging  on  to  the  pa- 
pers. 

"What  for  you  like, — I  want  my  property." 


354  HATCHWAYS 

"Let  you  sit  down,"  advised  Iveagh  pleasantly, 
and  corrected  three  of  the  figures  on  the  page. 

"What  did  the  other  girl  say  when  you  left 
them1?"  said  Wickford  a  little  later,  when  he  had 
sat  down  as  directed,  and  shortly  after,  got  all  his 
papers  back.  He  managed  Iveagh, — or  the  other 
way,  whichever  it  was,  like  that.  One  yielded  to 
win,  with  him,  invariably,  having  been  careful  first 
to  define  a  clear  position.  It  was  not  hard,  as  Sir 
George  said,  especially  to  another  Suir  nature. 
Wickford  learnt  how  to  do  the  trick  with  his  hand- 
ful of  a  brother  before  he  was  twelve:  his  mother 
had  never  learnt  yet,  at  fifty. 

"I  forget,"  Iveagh  answered  his  question,  with 
obvious  untruth.  He  looked  at  Wickford's  beauti- 
ful pencil,  which  he  then  stored  away  in  his  pocket. 
"She  said,"  he  observed  slowly,  "that  I  had  better 
rest." 

"Rest?' 

"It  was  the  word.  I  thought  it  strange  of  the 
girl." 

"You  having  walked  to  Hatchways  and  back 
once  during  the  day,"  said  Wickford,  in  rapid  satire. 

"She  knows  nothing  of  my  doings, — how  would 
she*?"  said  Iveagh.  "I've  been  for  an  hour  at  the 
horses  since  then." 


THE    WORST   OVER  355 

"She  might  have  guessed,  whatever  it  was,  you 
wouldn't  do  it  for  the  asking,"  said  Wickford. 

Iveagh  agreed  with  him,  settling  into  a  book. 
Ten  minutes  later  the  Duke,  glancing  that  way,  dis- 
covered him  fast  asleep  in  his  chair,  one  of  the  fine 
nervous  hands  he  wasted  on  groom's  work  commonly, 
across  his  face. 

"The  worst's  over,"  thought  the  wise  brother,  and 
sat  a  little,  debating  of  the  difficult  years  past,  just 
closing  as  he  trusted,  before  he  went  to  dress. 
Wickford  had  many  feelings  during  those  moments, 
common  relief  at  responsibility  removed  being 
merely  one.  But  beyond  that  single  phrase  we 
quote  he  made  no  further  effort  to  express  them, — 
so  why  need  we? 

Lise  left  next  day,  finishing  her  visit  beautifully 
as  she  began  it:  taking  it  quietly  rather,  for  she  was 
sorry  to  go.  M.  du  Frettay  kissed  her  hand  in  the 
hall,  and  she  clung  to  Ernestine  as  far  as  the  larches : 
but  the  Suir  boys  alone  "squired"  her  to  the  station, 
and  saw  her  off  with  all  honour  from  the  ash-strewn 
platform  their  mother  had  instituted,  in  the  great 
days  when  Holmer  was  first  made.  To  be  seen  off 
by  a  peer  of  the  realm  and  his  brother  is  not,  of 
course,  a  very  common  event  in  life:  but  Lise  for- 


350  HATCHWAYS 

got  about  it.  She  only  remembered  Wick  and 
Iveagh  belonged  to  her  old  life,  to  her  own  people, 
and  that  they  were  both  very  nice. 

"Good-bye,"  said  Wick  and  Iveagh  politely,  since 
every  human  being  in  the  station  bounds  had  a  lin- 
gering eye  fastened  upon  them,  or  rather  upon  Lise. 

"Good-bye,  ye  nice  people,"  said  Mrs.  Elphin- 
stone,  longing  to  kiss  them  both:  only  such  natural 
impulses  of  our  being  must,  in  certain  circumstances, 
be  restrained. 

"Won't  you  give  us  a  keepsake1?"  said  Wickford 
with  pathos,  hanging  on  the  train. 

"There's  a  shamrock,"  said  Lise  condescendingly, 
taking  an  extremely  dead  bit  of  clover  out  of  the 
breast  of  her  coat.  It  might  have  been  hay  by  the 
look  of  it.  "Don't  give  it  the  animals  to  eat,"  en- 
couraged Lise.  "Keep  it  yourselves.  You  can  di- 
vide it." 

"Which  of  us'll  divide  it1?"  said  Iveagh,  fixing 
her  with  his  sad  eyes. 

"You," — across  Wickford,  very  soft. 

"Lise,"  began  the  Duke,  nobly  protesting,  as 
Iveagh,  without  the  smallest  hesitation,  pocketed  the 
whole  of  the  hay. 

"There's  no  time  for  it,"  urged  Lise,  leaning 
down  from  the  train  with  an  arm  on  Wickford, 


THE    WORST   OVER  357 

holding  him  close,  to  the  scandal  of  the  porters. 
"Let  him, — it's  like  Esau.  He'll  always  dispute 
your  heritage  with  you,  and  be  snatching  things,  and 
tearing  things,  and  bother  your  life  out,  and  not 
be  worth  the  trouble  you've  taken  for  him  in  the 
end.  You're  the  best  of  the  two,  Wick,  and  I  tell 
you  so " 

"But  he'll  be  first  in  the  story,"  said  Wickford, 
with  a  little  smile. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  gasped  Lise.  "He  got  in 
front,  somehow.  It's  a  way  they  have,  me  dear. 
It  can't  be  helped." 

Then  she  went,  crying,  though  she  did  not  mean 
Iveagh  to  see  it.  He  was  not  worth  crying  for, 
either  of  them,  and  she  was  going  very  soon  to 
Mark.  Yet  they  were  her  own  people,  brothers  in 
tears  and  laughter,  and, — even  had  one  of  them 
never  worshipped  her,  and  kissed  her  shoe  in  the 
garden, — that  is  much.  It  is  well  behind  the  great 
passions  of  life,  the  purple  patches,  the  high  hero- 
isms, such  as  Mark's  plunge  in  the  Indian  torrent; 
but  it  is  the  warm  corner,  to  which  Irish  hearts  at 
least  cling  very  fondly. 

So  Lise  cried  for  Iveagh,  most  of  the  way  to  Lon- 
don,— though  she  loved  Mark. 


XX 

IMPLICATION  OF  ELEVEN  INFANTS 


ABOUT  the  surprising  incident  at  the  infant-school 
picnic  we  find  no  note  whatever  in  M.  du  Frettay's 
journal,  which,  attentively  adapted,  has  been  of 
such  service  to  us  hitherto.  He  simply  leaves  it  out, 
as  though  such  little  things  occurred  daily,  in  the 
strange  country  he  was  visiting.  Whether  it  was 
that  he  felt  himself  out  of  it,  as  regarded  the  cen- 
tral occurrence,  which  was  quite  the  most  thrilling 
thing  that  ever  happened  at  Holmer;  or  whether  it 
was  that  the  thing  itself  was  too  outre  for  his  nice 
French  taste,  we  cannot  say.  There  is,  as  now  pub- 
lished, a  general  tone  of  easy  cynicism  about  his 
English  notes,  to  which  the  incident  is  ill-adapted. 
It  approached  a  "trick  effect,"  which  of  all  things, 
in  clothes,  conversation,  life  and  manners,  the  du 
Frettay  standard  of  elegance  abhorred.  The  Ox- 
boroughs  thought  people  from  Paris  passed  their 

358 


ELEVEN    INFANTS  359 

lives  in  making  trick  effects, — though  they  admitted 
this  particular  young  Parisian's  clothes  were  decent; 
so  they  would  be  equally  astonished  at  our  theory 
and  his  view.  But  we  only  advance  it  modestly; 
for  it  is  quite  possible  a  fresh  and  unexpected  flash 
of  cynicism  from  M.  du  Frettay,  by  post  after  pub- 
lication, would  explode  it  quite.  He  might,  for  in- 
stance, say  he  left  the  incident  expressly  for  Miss 
All  good's  interpretation  and  commentary,  since  she, 
as  Certificated  Nature  Student,  and  exponent  of 
Prussian  methods  by  violence,  was  better  qualified. 
We  should  be  bound,  however,  to  reply  to  M.  du 
Frettay,  that  Sir  George  took  the  matter  seriously: 
and  he,  in  the  sort  of  case,  was  the  best  qualified  Na- 
ture Student  of  all.  Sir  George  considered  that, 
even  if  the  picnic  in  general  had  not  been  in  danger, 
that  April  day,  a  small  wandering  item  of  the  picnic, 
one  of  Renie's  and  Lise's  beloved  "babies,"  might 
have  been.  Shocking  danger, — almost  too  bad,  in 
the  precincts  of  England,  and  neighbourhood  of 
Hatchways,  to  be  believed.  This  was  the  point  in 
the  day's  doings  that  stirred  the  women-folk  so 
deeply:  and  which  brought  the  Duchess  and  Mrs. 
Redgate,  with  slightly  different  points  of  view  but 
just  the  same  anxiety,  back  into  the  ways  of  under- 
standing again. 


360  HATCHWAYS 

Sir  George  heard  the  news  that  the  creature  had 
escaped,  on  arriving  at  Reading  platform,  where, 
since  he  took  the  unclassical  train  to  town,  he  had 
to  change.  He  might  have  heard  it  before,  of 
course,  had  anyone  at  Holmer  read  the  papers;  but 
the  Duchess,  when  she  had  things  and  people,  only 
skimmed  it:  and  Wickford  though  he  read  atten- 
tively, read  the  wrong  part.  At  first  Sir  George 
was  indifferent:  until  some  station  official  told  him 
that  the  "tiger," — everyone  from  first  to  last  called 
it  a  tiger,  though  it  was  a  young  leopard,  merely, — 
had  been  tracked  by  the  circus-manager  among  the 
farms  in  the  Harkfield  direction.  It  had  killed  a 
goat. 

Sir  George,  at  this,  stood  still  on  his  two  feet  a 
moment,  and  then  walked  to  the  bookstall  and 
bought  a  map.  Harkfield  he  knew  as  the  residence, 
more  or  less,  of  Canon  Oxborough,  the  youngest  and 
liveliest  of  Gertrude's  three  brothers,  but  he  could 
not  recollect  its  situation.  He  found  it  ten  miles 
away  from  Holmer  north;  and  the  Belvedere  he  re- 
membered (having  a  geographical  mind)  was  to  the 
north  of  Holmer. 

Folding  up  the  map,  which  he  stowed  away  for 
future  reference,  Sir  George  therewith  determined 
three  things:  to  miss  his  train  to  London:  to  wire 


ELEVEN    INFANTS  361 

both  ways,  to  Wickford  and  the  friend  in  town  who 
was  expecting  him:  and  to  go  and  see  the  circus 
manager.  The  reason  of  these  decisions  was  double : 
first,  that  Sir  George  was  fond  of  children,  and  sec- 
ond, that  he  had  never  happened  to  meet  a  tiger 
face  to  face.  His  visiting  list  was  limited  to  lions, 
elephants,  bears,  and  a  panther  or  two.  A  tiger,  if 
it  was  one,  even  born  in  a  cage,  struck  Sir  George 
as  just  worth  looking  up. 

Even  thus  he  proceeded.  He  wired  to  Wickford 
— "Circus  big  cat  escaped  chances  dangerous  return- 
ing Trenchard."  He  wired  to  his  friend  Ashwin  in 
Harley  Street — "Tiger  hunt  here  will  try  evening 
George" :  a  form  of  words  which  (being  exactly  like 
him)  infuriated  a  busy  doctor,  and  upset  the  economy 
of  a  careful  house.  Then,  having  thus  simply  re- 
lieved his  mind  of  his  social  responsibilities,  Sir 
George  stepped  off  with  his  light  stalking  tread  to 
interview  the  circus  manager  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
town. 

The  manager  was  having  a  bad  time  between  the 
police  and  the  reporters,  and  having  lost  valuable 
property  into  the  bargain,  was  able  to  turn  in  no 
new  direction  without  swearing.  He  swore  at  Sir 
George,  not  knowing  his  name  at  first,  nor  caring 
when  he  knew  it:  and  he  had  good  reason  before 


362  HATCHWAYS 

he  had  done  with  him.  The  interview,  since  Sir 
George  wanted  that  tiger  as  much  as  the  manager, 
was  of  a  peculiar  nature.  First  Sir  George,  in  busi- 
ness terms,  with  a  card  and  references,  betrayed  his 
interest.  Were  they  looking  for  the  beast4?  Of 
course  they  were, — two  of  his  men  were  at  Hark- 
field.  Might  he  take  a  hand,  just  on  his  own, 
gratuitously?  The  manager  supposed  so,  if  he 
thought  himself  good  for  anything.  How  old  was 
the  creature?  Seventeen  months.  Born  in  captiv- 
ity? Yes.  Healthy?  Yes,  confound  it.  Tame? 
No,  plague  take  it.  Vicious?  Not  exactly, — it  de- 
pended, tricky, — like  all  its  beastly  kind.  Ever  at- 
tacked anybody?  Once,  it  had.  Why?  The  man- 
ager dodged  the  question.  Why  called  a  tiger  on 
the  circus  bills?  Because  it  performed,  or  was  sup- 
posed to.  Performing  tigers  more  stylish  than  per- 
forming leopards,  any  fool  could  see.  Besides  there 
had  once  been  a  tiger,  of  sorts, — now  the  lot  were 
rather  mixed.  Might  the  visitor  look  at  the  mixed 
lot,  some  time?  O'  course,  if  he  paid  his  place. 
Might  he  not,  say  by  paying  two  places,  have  a 
private  interview?  The  man  dared  say,  with  a  sus- 
picious glance,  he  could.  (He  began  to  take  him 
for  an  inspector,  disguised,  at  this  point.)  How 
did  they  hope  to  take  the  truant?  Lord  knew, — in 


ELEVEN    INFANTS  363 

a  net,  if  asleep.  If  not,  he  supposed,  cripple  and 
cure  it  later.  Horrid  waste  of  cash.  Cursed  swin- 
dle. Somebody  was  a  fool. 

Sir  George  then  went  off  "on  his  own,"  with  the 
remark  at  parting  that  should  he  see  the  beast, 
chances  were  he  should  shoot  it.  He  did  not  cot- 
ton to  hunting  with  fishing-nets,  at  his  time  of  life. 

"Then  you'll  pay  for  it,"  said  the  manager. 

"Right,"  said  Sir  George,  "but  I  keep  the  skin. 
Is  it  in  decent  condition*?" 

The  man,  now  finally  convinced  of  his  identity 
as  an  agent  of  a  certain  detested  Society,  burst  into 
profanity,  and  the  interview  at  Reading  closed. 

Next  arose  the  bitter  question  of  fire-arms.  Sir 
George's  own  trusted  weapons  were  in  town,  most  of 
them  being  seen  to.  Wickford,  of  course,  had  the 
British  sportsman's  kit.  On  the  other  hand,  given 
Harkfield  as  the  centre,  Holmer  was  out  of  the  way. 
Harkfield  was  easier  to  reach  from  Reading,  too, 
trains  stopped  there  more  constantly;  and  the  Canon 
Lionel  Oxborough  (being  more  Oxborough  than 
Canon)  owned  both  a  revolver  and  a  gun.  Thus, 
having  warned  Gertrude's  family  of  the  peril,  which 
might  be  none  at  all,  Sir  George  settled  to  make  for 
Harkfield  and  Lionel  direct,  by  the  immediate  train. 

We  pass — in  this  rapid  review  of  the  day's  ex- 


364s  HATCHWAYS 

perts — to  Miss  Ryeborn.  The  hunter  was  prom- 
inent and  interesting  on  the  occasion,  doubtless,  but 
there  was  a  more  prominent  and  interesting  figure 
still;  and  for  any  really  sympathetic  light  on  the 
movements  and  aims  of  that  four-legged  figure,  the 
world  had  ultimately  to  go  to  Bess.  True,  Bess  did 
not  know  about  leopards  so  fully  as  Sir  George,  but 
she  knew,  in  really  intimate  and  all-round  fashion, 
about  the  leopard's  little  kinsfolk,  cats.  A  leopard 
bred  in  captivity  is  little  other  than  a  cat.  The  fe- 
line race,  speaking  broadly,  were  darlings,  to  Bess: 
and  this  biggish  cat  remained  a  darling,  in  spite  of 
all,  whenever  referred  to  afterwards  in  really  con- 
fidential talk.  She  took  the  greatest  pains,  later, 
out  of  sheer  love,  to  follow  its  programme,  during 
its  day  and  a  half  of  unfamiliar  freedom:  the  rea- 
sons for  its  movements,  and  the  excuses  for  its  crimes. 
She  explained  it  to  the  farmer  whose  stock  had  suf- 
fered ;  she  would  gladly  have  explained  it  to  Renie's 
children  who,  led  by  Renie  and  the  Duchess,  in- 
clined to  think  it  a  horrible  ogrish  beast.  She  pas- 
sionately longed,  for  the  sake  of  the  other  mixed 
cats  still  in  his  power,  to  explain  it  to  the  circus- 
manager;  though,  for  this  particular  spotted  cat, 
such  interpretation  would  have  come  too  late. 

Nor  were  any  of  these  people  really  interested. 


ELEVEN    INFANTS  366 

Long  after,  in  the  presence  of  various  open-mouthed 
Oxboroughs,  Bess  ran  through  the  leopard's  pro- 
gramme, and  the  whole  of  the  picnic-day  incident, 
from  his  sole  point  of  view.  She  was  asked  to  do 
so,  for  the  benefit  of  Sir  George  and  another  jungle 
expert,  who,  vastly  admiring  such  accurate  informa- 
tion and  imaginative  sympathy,  dwelt  on  every  word. 

We  shall  take  occasion  to  wander  into  Bess's  do- 
minion later,  nor  will  there  be  any  doubt  when  we 
do  so,  it  differs  in  kind  so  greatly  from  Nature 
Study  according  either  to  Froebel,  du  Frettay,  or 
Sir  George.  The  psychological  study  of  beasts  is 
still  a  science  in  infancy,  but  it  progresses.  A  whole 
mass  of  accurate  and  loving  information  will  be  at 
the  service  of  its  first  exponents,  so  soon  as  the  sci- 
ence is  allowed  to  take  its  place.  England,  owing 
to  her  collector-students,  her  sportsmen,  and  spinster 
ladies,  may  well  be  foremost  among  the  countries 
that  contribute;  and  it  will  be  a  legitimate  feather 
in  her  cap,  if  she  so  should  be. 

We  come  on  (and  it  is  time)  to  Miss  Allgood. 
Irene  has  only  been  treated  by  allusion  and  innuendo 
so  far  in  this  history,  which  is  extremely  unfair  to 
an  excellent  little  "sort  of  girl."  Irene  had  no  voice 
that  day,  in  the  physical  sense,  but  she  had  lots  of 
voice  in  the  moral.  She  showed  the  courage  of  a 


366  HATCHWAYS 

little  lion,  and  she  kept  her  frightened  flock  in  hand. 
Mrs.  Redgate  had  no  trouble  with  her,  when  the 
moment  came  to  break  the  news  of  the  creature's 
probable  proximity.  She  whitened,  for  she  feared 
wild  beasts,  when  not  in  the  tale  of  Red  Riding- 
hood,  or  outlined  on  Kindergarten  cards.  Even 
cats  she  did  not  love,  though  she  took  picked  infants 
to  see  Miss  Ryeborn's  "dear  pussies"  occasionally. 
She  was  a  shocking  little  pedant,  as  Gabriel  and 
Rick  had  long  since  agreed;  but  she  was  essentially 
valiant  and  self- forgetting,  as  are  most  of  our  won- 
derful little  army  of  mothering-teachers :  and  she  sat 
in  the  Duchess's  broken  shed,  telling  stories  with  her 
thread  of  a  voice,  while  men,  guns,  and  an  unknown 
terror  were  circling  beyond  her, — as  women  have 
done  to  stay  panic  on  ship-board,  when  secretly 
warned  the  ship  was  going  down. 

So  du  Frettay  noted,  correcting  several  of  his  easy 
impressions  about  her,  as,  armed  with  a  stick  alone, 
he  guarded  the  wide  entrance  to  the  children's  re- 
treat. And  thereafter,  when  he  met  Renie  tripping 
nose  in  air  about  the  village,  he  swept  his  hat  off 
with  the  same  agreeable  excessiveness  he  had  used, 
in  the  Holmer  roadway,  to  lovely  Lise.  Courage 
and  self- forgetting  are  not  all  one  requires,  certainly, 
of  a  woman,  but  they  were  much,  in  du  Frettay's 


ELEVEN    INFANTS  367 

view;  and  when  a  girl  is  ill  with  laryngitis,  hard- 
ened by  the  daily  posture  of  infallibility,  and  badly 
spoiled  by  a  Duchess  into  the  bargain, — one  appre- 
ciates the  appearance  of  those  high  qualities  in  a 
crisis  all  the  more. 

We  pass  to — at  least  we  glance  at — Rick,  the 
Times  critic,  whose  courage  failed.  We  would  not 
for  a  moment  be  taken  as  asserting  that  courage, 
even  in  a  man,  is  everything, — nor  that  critics,  as 
such,  fail  in  it, — nothing  in  life  admits  of  such  arbi- 
trary standards.  Also,  Rick  had  the  excuse  of 
vagueness,  or  very  inexact  information  as  to  the  crea- 
ture's whereabouts.  He  was  vague  altogether, 
thinking  out  an  article,  when,  on  his  way  back  from 
his  wife's  woodland  lunch,  he  met  the  keeper.  Ti- 
gers, he  agreed  with  du  Frettay,  were  rather  ridicu- 
lous, and  it  sounded  uncommonly  like  a  cock-and- 
bull  story  of  the  keeper's  boy,  as  told  to  him.  Rick 
also  knew  there  were  no  less  than  four  able-bodied 
young  men  more  or  less  in  reach  of  that  picnic  party, 
and  neglected  (being  no  sportsman)  the  little  fact 
that  they  might  have  but  one  gun,  and  that  not  of 
the  best,  between  them.  That  he  might  be  of  in- 
estimable service,  then  and  there,  by  fetching  an- 
other gun,  was  far  from  Mr.  Redgate's  thoughts  at 
the  moment;  nor  could  it  enter  his  wise  head  that, 


368  HATCHWAYS 

failing  him,  his  wife  would  have  to  do  it;  managing 
all  those  boys  of  hers  to  let  her,  since,  in  the  nature 
of  things,  no  man  of  them  could  be  spared  from 
the  children's  guard. 

All  these,  the  mere  spiritual  necessities  of  the  case, 
given  those  men  and  women,  did  not  reach  Rick's 
mind;  being  perhaps  more  used  to  dealing  with  art, 
the  reflection  of  life,  than  the  spiritual  facts  of  life 
itself.  Personally  he  knew,  with  his  bad  sight,  with 
gun  or  stick  either,  he  would  be  good  for  naught: 
and,  since  the  keeper  with  a  loaded  gun  was  going 
on  to  warn  them,  Rick  went  home.  That  is  all  that 
happened,  simply.  He  was  very  glad  to  see  du  Fret- 
tay  and  Nesta  safe  home  again  at  tea-time, — espe- 
cially as  he  wanted  his  tea, — and  he  never  discovered 
Nesta  had  known  he  met  the  keeper.  She  would  not 
have  thought  of  pressing  such  a  point,  when  he  had 
been  so  sensible,  and  done  what  she  expected,  in 
getting  home  as  fast  as  possible.  That  is  all  about 
Rick. 

Having  thus  given  away  the  plot,  we  proceed  to 
the  drama  of  the  day,  which  was  very  commonplace 
drama,  much  like  all  other  picnics  to  start  with,  and 
never  getting  to  more  than  rather  broad  and  absurd, 
and  perhaps  rather  strained  drama  at  the  worst.  It 
started  with  fire-building  and  fun  for  the  children, 


ELEVEN    INFANTS  369 

and  proceeded  to  food,  of  course.  Later  in  the  day, 
everyone  was  to  be  serious.  Nature  Study,  not  to 
say  a  demonstration  in  front  of  the  gentlemen,  was 
lurking  among  Miss  Allgood's  intentions,  a  serious 
consultation  with  Mrs.  Redgate  on  the  subject  of 
Adelaide  was  at  the  back  of  Sam's  mind:  art,  as 
usual,  occupied  the  entire  outlook  of  Bess.  Or,  if 
not  the  entire  outlook — well,  there  was  not  much, 
that  day,  to  be  expected  anywhere  else. 

Iveagh,  from  his  first  appearance,  dissociated  him- 
self markedly.  There  were  really  too  many  kids 
about  for  him  to  care  to  take  a  hand.  Even  the 
food,  which  so  firmly  attached  Mr.  Coverack  to  that 
picnic's  fate,  hardly  seemed  to  do  for  him.  His 
ideas  were  otherwise  absorbed,  and  his  eyes — as  so 
often  out-of-doors — seemed  to  be  made  for  some 
other  purpose  than  that  of  looking  at  people.  He 
just  dropped  down  one  or  two  things  his  mother  had 
sent,  without  comment  or  message,  in  the  picnic's 
midst,  and  stood  a  moment,  taking  things  in  with 
his  sniffing  expression, — more  as  overseer,  it  seemed, 
than  as  guest,  or  host.  Granted  he  found  things 
about  right  in  this  part  of  his  brother's  estate,  his 
expression  said,  he  was  going  on  again,  shortly. 

"Glory,  what  a  smoke,"  was  his  only  remark, — 
which  was,  indeed,  inevitable. 


370  HATCHWAYS 

"Oh,  Rick,  really /"  said  Ernestine.     "Bess!" 

Rick  was  engaged  in  making  the  fire, — well,  as 
he  considered.  It  was  true  the  fire  "ran  to  smoke," 
but  then,  he  explained  to  du  Frettay  across  his  shoul- 
der, out-door  fires  always  did.  He  had  excellent 
material,  lots  of  it,  which  the  children  had  collected : 
he  even  had  a  basket  grate  in  the  shelter  of  the 
broken-down  shed.  He  watched  the  fire  running  to 
smoke  with  great  complacency,  and  expended  count- 
less matches,  which  strewed  the  ground. 

At  this  point  came  Bess,  despatched  by  Ernestine, 
and  fell  upon  the  malefactor. 

"Look,"  said  Bess,  falling  on  her  knees,  "at  that 
nice  little  flame,  all  wasted!  What's  the  point  of 
a  flame  like  that,  unless  it's  doing  something?"  She 
fed  it  carefully  with  four  small  sticks.  "And  look 
at  the  way  he's  choked  the  poor  thing  up — "  She 
abstracted  tight  balls  of  paper.  "And  fancy  clap- 
ping the  most  indigestible  great  things  down 
first,  Renie!  Why — Iveagh  would  have  known 
better!" 

Iveagh  believed,  with  indifference,  he'd  have  let 
the  air  under. 

"Of  course  you  would, — science !  There — "  said 
Bess  to  the  fire,  soothingly.  "You  have  to  look  well 
forward.  You  mustn't  discourage  any  hopeful 


ELEVEN    INFANTS  371 

sign.  You  must  give  it  first  what  it  likes,  of  course, 
only " 

"With  an  eye  to  the  event,"  said  her  uncle,  ob- 
serving her.  "I  say,  strikes  me  this  is  education, 
rather  than  science.  What  do  you  say,  Miss  All- 
good?' 

Miss  Allgood,  sitting  on  the  wood-pile  in  the  for- 
est clearing,  smiled  demurely.  She  could  have  done 
the  fire,  of  course,  if  wanted :  only  now  it  seemed  to 
be  getting  on.  Getting  things  on  was  most  of  Miss 
Allgood's  business.  What  she  undertook  in  that 
way  came  off,  generally:  her  "seed-leaves"  turned  to 
radishes,  and  her  tadpoles  turned  to  frogs.  Her 
children  turned  to  men  and  women,  too,  eventually, 
only  they  did  not  interest  her  greatly  beyond  the 
age-limit,  eight  years  old.  Very,  excessively  com- 
plicated or  irregular  things  did  not  interest  Irene, 
she  preferred  them  compact.  She  herself  was  com- 
pact, as  she  sat  upon  a  log,  hands  folded;  Iveagh, 
when  his  eyes  passed  over  her,  thought  so:  and  so, 
in  Adelaide's  absence,  did  Sam.  But  they  were  both 
a  trifle  shy  of  her;  for,  though  dainty  and  pleasant 
to  the  eye,  she  was  given  to  "crushing"  her  unpro- 
fessional surroundings  in  daily  life. 

After  dinner, — dinner  it  was,  with  pies,  and  roast 
potatoes  charmingly  charred  in  a  wood  fire,  the  best 


372  HATCHWAYS 

there  are, — serious  purpose,  such  as  the  Duchess  most 
approved,  descended  on  the  company.  Bess,  who 
had  been  playing  with  the  infants,  took  up  her  ma- 
terials, and  went  away  towards  the  view  to  sketch. 
Rick,  having  smoked  a  pipe  with  the  young  fellows, 
set  out  homewards, — Nature  Study  was  not  his  line. 
Sam  went  a  stroll  with  Mrs.  Redgate,  retained  be- 
forehand. Irene  "took"  the  children, — she  always 
"took"  both  persons  and  subjects, — within  hearing 
of  M.  du  Frettay,  who,  being  from  France,  would 
be  safe  to  be  impressed.  Child  Study,  in  the  high- 
est sense,  is  unknown  in  France,  Nature  Study  also. 
She  classified  the  "specimens"  the  infants  brought 
her,  calling  each  woodland  thing  in  turn  by  its  Latin 
name. 

"Is  she  right?"  signalled  Gabriel  once  sidelong, 
hoping  to  stir  criticism:  but  Iveagh  was  not  crit- 
ically inclined.  He  was  not  even  attending  much, 
— he  was  restless. 

"I'm  goin',"  he  observed  to  his  surroundings. 
"Right,"  said  Gabriel,  "if  you  can't  be  pleasant." 
"Mother's  makin'  a  glass  house,"  remarked  Iveagh, 
still  to  nobody  in  particular. 

"What,  to  be  enabled  to  cast  more  stones'?" 
"No, — to  stick  things  in.     Tricky  little  things, — 
tropical.     I  got  her  one  or  two." 


ELEVEN    INFANTS  373 

"You  imply  the  Duchess  requires  your  friendly 
assistance?  That  you  ought  to  be  at  her  right 
hand?" 

Iveagh  sniffed.  "I  gave  her  hope, — some  time." 
He  added,  after  a  pause — "She  had  the  look  of 
needin'  me,  at  breakfast." 

"Never !"  Gabriel  glanced,  amused.  "What  do 
you  want,  you  oddity?"  he  thought. 

"I  suppose  you'll  be  all  right  here,"  said  Iveagh, 
lifting  an  eyebrow  at  the  picnic  scene. 

"I? — or  the  company?  I  think,  do  you  know, 
with  my  hostess's  help,  we  shall  manage  to  get 
through." 

"He'll  be  along  himself,  with  luck,"  murmured 
Iveagh. 

It  was,  Gabriel  began  to  see,  a  clash  between 
tribal  duty  to  Mrs.  Redgate  on  Holmer  land,  and  his 
own  more  sylvan,  savage  mood.  Receiving  Mrs. 
Redgate  out  of  doors  was  something  of  a  puzzle,  to 
Iveagh's  instincts.  Himself,  i.e.  Wickford,  a  tamer 
character  in  training  of  the  English  Court,  might  be 
able  to  manage  it.  Gabriel,  so  interpreting,  volun- 
teered a  solution. 

"I  will  tell  her,"  he  said,  "that  you  are  at  her 
service,  if  required.  Will  that  do?" 

It  did:  Iveagh  went,  at  once.     Probably  not  to 


374  HATCHWAYS 

the  glass  house,  but  du  Frettay  did  not  enquire  into 
it.  He  smoked  in  the  thin  shade  of  the  April  trees, 
thinking  about  him, — till  the  keeper  came. 

ii 

"Is  Mrs.  Redgate  here,  sir?"  said  the  keeper,  look- 
ing upon  the  group  of  children  with  a  dubious  eye. 

"Just  beyond  there,"  said  du  Frettay.  He  lazily 
watched  the  interview  of  the  keeper  and  Ernestine 
returning,  for  Sam  had  gone  on  his  way.  He  saw 
her  stand,  for  an  instant,  very  still:  but  then,  she 
often  did  that.  Still  lazy,  skimming  surfaces  only, 
he  looked  at  her  capable  form,  easeful  carriage,  and 
hatless  head  with  the  pleasure  she  never  failed  to 
awaken  in  him.  Her  cordial  face  made  one  with 
the  rest,  as  a  rule,  but  for  the  moment,  he  could  not 
see  her  face.  He  noted,  though,  that  beside  the 
keeper,  a  splendidly  tall  man,  she  looked  tall  no 
longer.  Such  was  England. 

"It's  killed  a  goat,  'm,"  was  the  keeper's  informa- 
tion,— the  end  of  it.  "Mauled  it  something  hor- 
rible. And  if  my  boy's  right,  it  was  seen  close  here 
this  morning." 

Close  here — in  the  safe  precincts  of  an  English 
wood — and  killed  a  goat.  .  .  .  Mauled  it, — muti- 
lated. .  .  .  She  turned  and  looked  upon  the  group 


ELEVEN    INFANTS  375 

of  children,  her  eye  counting  them  up.  Eleven,  that 
was  right, — but  Bess — 

"Which  direction  was  it  seen  in*?" 

"Up  by  the  Belvedere,  'm."     Oh,  Bess! 

"Did  you  see  Mr.  Redgate?" 

"Yes'm, — just  mentioned  it.  Hadn't  much 
time." 

"Have  you  told  the  Duke?" 

"No'm.     I  thought  his  Grace  was  hereabouts." 

"He's  at  the  house,  I  think."  It  was  two  to  three 
miles  back  to  Holmer. 

"Better  get  'em  into  the  shed,"  said  the  keeper,  an 
eye  shifting  to  the  Nature  Study  party. 

"Yes,  poor  dears."  Ernestine  had  time  to  think 
that  it  spoilt  their  happy  day. 

"I  sent  my  boy  back  to  Holmer,"  said  the  keeper. 
"But  Mr.  Warrener's  is  nearer  here.  Or  Mr.  Mar- 
chant's." 

"Has  Mr.  Marchant  fire-arms?' 

"Not  likely,  'm.  Mr.  Warrener  would  have 
shotguns,  same  as  this  is.  Better'n  nothing.  Shall 
I  get  on  there " 

"I'll  go,"  said  Mrs.  Redgate.  "You  must  stay 
here,  please,  till  the  Duke  comes.  Irene,  dear, — M. 
du  Frettay!" 

Gabriel  was  on  his  feet.     He  had  never  been  sum- 


376  HATCHWAYS 

moned  in  that  clear  tone  before:  it  was  something, 
he  was  then  certain.  The  next  instant  Wickford 
himself,  unarmed,  having  of  course  missed  the  mes- 
senger, walked  tranquilly  upon  the  scene. 

"I  thought  I'd  look  you  up "  he  was  begin- 
ning, host,  like  Iveagh.  He  had  not  been  able,  quite, 
to  keep  away.  Being  busy  that  day  he  had,  on  a 
sudden  impulse,  put  his  lunch  in  his  pocket,  and 
done  the  three  miles  easy,  as  a  midday  walk. 

"Oh,  Wick,  just  listen — "  said  Ernestine. 

He  joined  the  group,  and  they  all  listened  to  the 
story  of  the  keeper's  son,  which  Rick  had  heard 
previously :  the  skulking  yellow  thing  that  had  been 
seen  in  the  covert,  not  two  hours  since,  fresh  from  a 
farm-yard  crime. 

"Good  Lord!"  said  Wickford.  "I  say,— this'll 
be  rather  a  jar,  for  Trenchard." 

He  looked  at  du  Frettay,  smiling,  and  received,  in 
response,  a  smile.  Really,  for  grown  men  who  were 
not  existing  either  in  a  jungle,  or  a  fairy-tale,  the 
thing  seemed  a  little  wild.  A  tiger, — in  England! 

"It's  mauled  a  goat,"  mentioned  the  keeper. 

Gravity  on  all  faces,  at  once:  and  glances  at  the 
children.  Even  the  most  ignorant  of  us,  brought  up 
on  romances,  know  the  difference  to  original  ferocity 
made  by  the  taste  of  blood.  Irene's  eleven  children 


ELEVEN    INFANTS  377 

would  have  repeated  it  pat,  if  applied  to.  Not 
likely,  though,  anyone  would  ask  them.  No, — 
Wickford  turned  grave. 

"I  seen  the  goat — "  began  the  man,  with  the  usual 
relish. 

"Drop  it,"  said  Wickford,  seeing  poor  Irene's 
whitening  face.  Not  even  well,  the  girl, — it  was 
beastly  hard  lines  on  her.  Nor  could  she  be  in  any 
way  spared,  as  it  happened. 

"Could  you  tell  them  about  their  flowers  in  the 
shed4?"  suggested  Ernestine.  The  little  school- 
marm  went,  in  silence. 

"I'm  going  in  because  of  my  throat,"  they  heard 
her  murmur,  in  her  professionally  encouraging  tone. 
"Who's  coming?' 

All  came,  chattering  and  tumbling.  The  chil- 
dren out  of  sight,  the  remaining  group  of  four  felt 
better.  "Who's  missing,  else?'  said  Wickford 
curtly. 

"Bess." 

"Painting*?"  She  indicated  the  direction. 
"Where's  the  lad?' 

"Iveagh  went  home,  I  think,"  said  du  Frettay. 

"Dash!"  said  Wickford,  and  the  keeper  knew 
why.  Iveagh  was  much  the  best  shot. 

"Give  us  that  gun,  you,"  said  the  Duke,  taking  it, 


378  HATCHWAYS 

"and  get  along  all  you  know  to  Warrener's,  keepin' 
the  paths,  and  goin'  quietly " 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Redgate.  "I'm  going,  I  told 
him.  You  are  all  wanted  here." 

Then  came  the  battle, — foregone,  though,  in  its 
conclusion.  "You  ought  to  ha'  seen  Mrs.  Redgate 
take  charge  of  his  Grace,"  the  keeper  grinned  to  an 
audience  later, — but  it  was  the  fact.  Habit  is 
everything,  in  a  crisis.  Wickford  had  been  a 
schoolboy  when  he  had  known  her  first,  always, 
though  so  little  older,  in  the  character  of  his  moth- 
er's friend.  He  was  far  from  weak,  yet  it  was  odd 
how,  almost  from  the  first,  his  look  strayed  towards 
Gabriel,  the  stranger  and  foreigner,  appealing. 
But  Gabriel  himself  grew  helpless  when  he  really 
met  her  eyes.  It  struck  him  he  had  hardly  known 
her  eyes'  colour  before, — they  were  blue-grey,  greyer 
than  Bess's.  Ernestine  was  in  uniform  now,  most 
visibly.  She  was  armed  too,  at  once,  with  a  stick 
from  the  forest  pile. 

'Til  take  that,"  she  said,  "but  it's  most  unlikely 
the  animal  would  attack,  if  one  goes  quietly. 
That's  Bess's  best  chance  too,  she  will  be  sitting 
still.  Cat-things  are  shy,  and  it  has  been  used  to 
man  all  its  life, — it's  not  as  if  we  were  in  India " 

"But  it's  mauled  a  goat,"  said  Wickford's  and 


ELEVEN    INFANTS  379 

Gabriel's  eyes,  though  their  tongues  did  not  say  it. 

"I'm  as  strong  as  lots  of  men.  Go  and  find  Bess, 
Wick  dear,  if  you  want  to  help  me " 

"Madame,"  the  young  Frenchman  broke  out,  "I 
cannot  have  it!  Can  you  not  see*?  Failing  your 
husband " 

Failing  him,  yes, — for  she  would  have  obeyed 
Rick :  they  all  knew  that.  She  turned  back,  having 
started,  to  face  him. 

"I  leave  you  my  children,  M.  du  Frettay,"  she 
said.  "Mine,  if  you  please,  not  Renie's.  I  brought 
them  out.  If  one  is  missing,  when  I  come  back, — 
even  the  littlest, — Peter " 

Her  eyes  were  alight,  but  her  mouth  was  dimpling, 
actually.  Ernestine  was  not  especially  Manchester, 
at  that  moment.  Or  perhaps  she  was.  Such  dog- 
gedness,  in  the  spirit  of  those  Northern  towns, — • 
such  abominable  independence  of  judgment,  in  crit- 
ical times! 

"Bon  j'y  renonce,"  said  M.  du  Frettay  to  every- 
body. "Je  m'en  charge,  Madame, — de  la  famille, 
— et  de  Peter  surtout." 

He  went  away  with  the  keeper  to  find  sticks. 

"Take  the  rope,  I  say,"  said  du  Frettay,  just  as 
Wickford  was  leaving  in  turn.  The  rope  of  the  big 


380  HATCHWAYS 

picnic-hamper,  slip-knotted,  lay  on  the  ground.  Its 
long  coil  suggested  a  lasso,  to  a  hunter's  eye. 

"What  the  deuce  for?"  said  Wickford,  whose 
ideas  of  the  chase  resembled  Sir  George's.  Ropes 
and  nets  did  not  enter  into  it.  However,  when  du 
Frettay  reminded  him  of  an  owner  in  the  back- 
ground, and  the  truant's  probable  value,  he  took  it 
up,  though  his  appearance  protested.  He  really  had 
no  notion  of  using  it,  though  a  rope  added  vaguely 
to  his  resources,  in  the  singular  affray.  Wickford 
was  not  frightened,  but  the  concurrence  irked  his 
nerves,  rubbed  him  up,  in  the  Oxborough  phrase, 
because  is  was  strange.  He  liked  things  regular, — 
the  good  day's  shooting,  to  him  was  the  classical  day. 
On  horse-back,  thanks  to  the  Irish  inspiration,  he 
lost  himself  a  little:  whispers  from  the  other-world 
of  the  romantic  reached  him,  and  could,  in  the  proper 
setting  of  turf  and  bogland,  send  him  off  his  head. 
But  not  often,  and  not  at  Holmer :  here,  at  least,  he 
preferred  to  have  things  governed,  fairly  straight. 

"Shall  I  come,  your  Grace,"  said  the  keeper,  in 
the  low  henchman's  tone.  It  meant  that,  as  a 
unique  object,  not  easily  matched,  the  Duke's  person 
was  to  be  protected.  Wickford  shied  at  once. 

"WTiy  should  you*?"  he  said  snubbingly.  "Stay 
where  you  are,  and  look  out.  If  the  people  come," 


ELEVEN    INFANTS  381 

he  added  to  du  Frettay,  "stick  them  round  the  wood. 
It's  probably  taken  to  cover,  after  that  feed.  I  only 
hope  the  light  will  hold." 

He  glanced  upward;  then,  with  a  last  look  round 
upon  the  broken  shed,  with  its  faintly  steaming  fire, 
doorless  entrance,  and  precious  contents,  he  went. 
Wickford  could  not  get  the  scene  into  focus,  some- 
how: it  had  all  come  on  him  too  unexpectedly. 
Here,  on  Victorian  Holmer  land,  in  reach  of  the 
Shrubbery  and  the  Prospect, — close  to  the  Belve- 
dere! A  tiger-hunt!  No,  it  did  not  do.  Picture 
his  mother's  face,  hearing  of  it!  Imagine  his  Uncle 
Oliver!  As  he  proceeded,  the  Duke's  mouth  gave 
its  little  twitch,  sardonical. 

From  the  moment  that  he  heard  his  brother's 
whistle,  in  the  thicket  off  to  the  left  of  the  path, 
which  spread  up  the  swelling  hillside  the  Belvedere 
dominated,  he  found  things  begin  to  slip  into  their 
places  and  proportions  again.  Nothing  the  world 
held  was  too  weird  for  Iveagh,  anyhow.  A  tiger  in 
Berkshire  was  matter-of-course,  compared  with  him, 
the  kind  of  thing  he  stood  for,  in  Wickford's  mind 
and  memory.  No  one,  of  course,  knew  Iveagh's  con- 
tents better  than  he  did, — had  more  reason  to  know. 
If  nothing  else,  the  magnificent  scene  by  bicycle- 
lamplight, — staged  not  so  very  far,  as  it  happened, 


HATCHWAYS 

from  this  spot, — was  always  there,  haunting  the 
back  of  the  brother's  consciousness,  quickly  recalled 
by  a  look  or  a  tone.  Wickford  had  been  lifted  to 
his  level  on  that  occasion,  easily:  he  had  surprised 
himself,  not  a  little.  Now 

Iveagh  had  forgotten  all  about  the  glass  house, 
and  his  mother's  rare  aspect  of  needing  him,  evi- 
dently, long  since.  He  was  grubbing  round  a  tree- 
trunk  for  some  favourite  funguses,  quite  happy  and 
absorbed,  when  he  was  disturbed  by  Wick,  a  loaded 
gun,  a  lasso-looking  rope,  and  the  unusual  bit  of 
news.  Or  rather  not  disturbed, — he  was  inter- 
rupted. He  gazed  levelly,  his  eyes  still  cave-dwell- 
ing, fungus-hunting,  and  unconcerned. 

"Rats !"  he  remarked,  at  the  tiger's  name.  It  was 
instinctive. 

"Where's  Miss  Ryeborn'?"  said  Wickford. 

"She's  up  beyond,  there,  paintin'.  Said  she  was 
goin'  up,  to  get  the  view."  Iveagh  took  a  look  round 
at  the  thicket  he  stood  in,  dusting  his  fingers,  which 
were  earthy.  "I've  not  seen  anything  about,"  he 
said  suggestively.  "Crocodiles  or  anything, — I've 
had  lots  to  do." 

"The  brute's  mauled  a  goat,"  said  Wickford. 
"Hudson  had  seen  it,  down  at  Finch's  farm. 
Mauled  it  horrid.  It  was  marked  close  here." 


ELEVEN    INFANTS  383 

Iveagh's  eyes  changed.     "Who  marked  it*?" 

"Jem  Hudson,  the  young  one.  Close  to  the 
path." 

"Jem's  a  liar,"  said  Iveagh,  weighing  it.  "How- 
ever— just  hand  me  those  traps." 

"What?"  said  Wickford,  clutching  the  gun,  and 
the  rope:  for  it  was  that,  quite  evidently,  that  his 
brother's  careless  hand  required. 

"Granted  it's  here,  and  not  in  Jem's  fat  head,  I'll 
find  it,"  elucidated  Iveagh.  "As  for  shootin',  we'll 
see  to  that, — or  rather  the  gun  will.  That  one  might 
shoot  a  sparrow,  at  need."  He  ran  a  chaffing  eye 
over  Wickford's  equipment,  and  added  casually — 
"I'll  manage  it.  Let  you  get  down  to  the  kids." 

"What's  that?"  gasped  Wickford.  "You  just  re- 
peat that,  ye  little " 

"Come  on,"  said  Iveagh  patiently.  He  did  not 
say  he  was  the  better  shot,  but  it  was  apparent.  It 
was  far  too  apparent  in  his  whole  behaviour.  "Dan- 
gerous for  Dukes,"  he  proceeded,  as  Wickford's 
deep  emotion  kept  him  silent, — this  was  Iveagh's 
chance,  as  a  rule.  "You  might  be  wanted." 

"Who  by?" 

"Oh,  well, — Mother."  He  smiled  completely. 

"Look  out,  now,  playin',  you'll  waste  a  charge " 

He  spoke  cajoling,  quite  charming  for  the  instant. 


384  HATCHWAYS 

The  uncanny  look  shifted  like  a  shadow,  and  in  a 
flash  Wickford  saw  his  father  clear.  A  hundred 
delightful  memories  sprang  to  light  in  his  manner 
and  his  eyes.  Confident  and  competent,  and  more, 
— the  whole  promise  of  the  future  in  that  one  flash 
from  the  past. 

"I'll  not  waste  it,  I  can  tell  you,  if  you  speak  so 
to  me,"  spluttered  Wickford.  Was  he  six  years 
older  than  Iveagh,  or  was  he  not? 

"You  will,"  returned  Iveagh,  "you'll  waste  it 
worse."  He  snapped  his  fingers.  "Come  on,  the 
girl's  waitin',"  he  said,  and  his  eyes  moved  away  up 
the  path. 

It  was  then  Wickford  had  his  idea. 

"He  d — disarmed  me,"  he  stammered  to  du 
Frettay,  arriving  disconsolate  and  discomposed. 
"He  said  it  was  d — dangerous  for  Dukes.  He's  a 
cheeky  little  blackguard.  I  can't — do  with  him  al- 
ways." 

He  sank  down  on  the  logs  by  the  shed,  hand  to 
brow,  quite  overcome. 

"All  right,"  said  du  Frettay.  "You  did  the  only 
thing." 

"Th— think  so?" 

"Of  course, — very  smart." 


ELEVEN    INFANTS  385 

He  quite  understood  it, — the  keeper  did  too. 
They  both  looked  aside  till  Wickford  recovered. 
He  had  done  the  only  thing,  the  clever  thing  really 
in  giving  way,  abandoning  the  lead  at  such  a  critical 
juncture,  but  his  pride  had  suffered,  naturally:  du 
Frettay  could  guess  how  much.  The  keeper,  who 
had  seen  shades  of  the  same  thing,  often,  when 
Iveagh,  with  a  flash  of  that  irresistible  assumption, 
"wiped  his  brother's  eye"  in  the  sporting  field,  was 
just  as  sympathetic.  Neither  of  them  noticed  the 
Duke  had  been  knocked  out,  and  Wickford  recovered 
tone  almost  immediately,  and  got  up. 

"Give  us  a  stick,"  he  said,  and  snatched  one. 
"Oh,  Lord!"— he  whitened,  "What's  that?" 

"Sacr — r — r "  muttered  du  Frettay,  with  a 

low  thunder  of  French  r's.  A  snarl,  distant  but  un- 
mistakable, fierce  and  fearsome,  broke  the  silence  on 
the  hill.  Then  a  second  long  choking  snarl:  then 
silence. 

It  was  the  bad  moment,  within  the  shed,  and 
without  it.  Wickford  had  vanished  like  a  shade. 
Gabriel  before  the  door  stood  at  attention,  carrying 
his  stick  like  a  sabre,  his  blue  eyes  well  open,  fixed 
on  the  leafage  at  the  turn  of  the  path.  No  tiger  was 
to  get  by  him  alive,  that  was  evident.  The  keeper, 
a  tall  man  (and  a  father),  retiring,  spread  his  arms 


386  HATCHWAYS 

across  the  doorway.  Neither  knew  the  least,  of 
course,  what  to  expect.  Behind  both,  the  children's 
little  frightened  questions  chirping  faintly,  and 
Irene's  clever  laugh  as  she  responded. 

"A  wild  pussy,  Peter.  Only  a  poor  pussy.  You 
just  wait." 

They  all  just  waited,  for  what  seemed  an  inter- 
minable period.  No  sign  of  Bess,  Wickford,  or 
Iveagh,  who  had  all  melted  for  good,  as  it  seemed, 
behind  that  screen  of  leaves.  No  cry,  growl,  rustle, 
nor  further  sign.  Then — en  fin!  Two  sharp  re- 
ports, one  close  after  the  other,  relieving  the  cruel 
silence. 

"That's  a  revolver,"  said  du  Frettay,  turning 
sharply.  "Who  has  a  revolver,  round  here4?" 

"Couldn't  say,  sir,"  said  the  keeper,  "unless  it 
should  be  Mr.  Warrener.  Not  my  old  gun,  any- 
how,— I'm  sure  of  that."  He  searched  the  leaf- 
scrub  with  a  restless  eye.  "Hope  they  potted  it," 
he  murmured.  "No  fun,  sir,  such  things  about, 
children  and  all,  excuse  me." 

"No  excuse  necessary,"  said  du  Frettay.  "It  is 
no  fun." 

"If  it  was  his  lordship,  I'd  trust  him,"  elucidated 
the  keeper,  still  searching.  "But  Mr.  Warrener's 
fellows  potting  about  on  our  land " 


ELEVEN    INFANTS  387 

"You  would  not  trust,"  supplied  du  Frettay. 
"Perfectly,  I  apprehend  you."  He  stayed  a  space 
listening  and  looking,  like  his  companion,  intently. 
"I  wish  the  girl  would  show  up,"  he  said  to  him- 
self. 

"That's  it,  sir,"  said  the  keeper.  "Miss  Bess, 
she's  Mrs.  Redgate's  niece,  sir " 

"I  am  aware  of  it." 

"I  mean " 

"I  know  what  you  mean.  Mrs.  Redgate  will  be 
anxious.  I  am  very  glad,"  mused  du  Frettay,  "she 
was  not  here  lately,  to  hear  those  sounds." 

"I  was  thinking  the  same,  sir,  at  the  moment,  ex- 
cuse me " 

"You  require  no  excuse." 

"No,  sir,  but " 

"I  know.  It  is  your  habit,"  said  du  Frettay  with 
sympathy.  "Centuries  old."  He  remained  an- 
other space,  listening  closely.  "Now,"  he  said,  lift- 
ing his  alert  young  head,  "I  will  tell  you  something, 
— with  your  excuses." 

"Yes,  sir,"  submitted  the  keeper,  who  had  been 
looking  at  him  puzzled,  yet  appreciative.  The 
whole  of  the  Holmer  out-door  staff  regarded  Gabriel 
like  that.  He  was  a  gentleman  anyone  would  be 
proud  to  serve,  to  look  at  him.  He  was  even  hand- 


388  HATCHWAYS 

somer  than  Captain  Elphinstone,  as  athletic,  and 
much  more  affable.  But  he  said  such  things. 

"It  is  my  impression,"  said  Gabriel  seriously  to 
the  keeper,  "since  those  revolver-shots,  that  the  cir- 
cus-proprietor will  be  disappointed.  I  cannot  say 
why.  There  was  about  them,  to  my  mind,  I  cannot 
say  what  of  reassuring.  Of  clean, — of  cocksure, — 
of  chic, — no,  that  is  French." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  keeper. 

"Well,  find  me  a  word  for  it  then!  You  know 
my  meaning, — Lord  Iveagh  on  horseback  has  it  also. 
The  masterly, — and  masterful, — sapristi!  The 
style — pre-natal,  which  potting  persons  like  myself 
and  you  and  the  Warreners  shall  seek  for  ever  and 
vainly  to  imitate.  The  style — intuitive,  which  is 
the  only  existing — adorable — Aha,  Sir  George!" 


XXI 

IT 

WE  move  into  Bess's  realm,  with  excuses,  like  the 
keeper:  just  at  the  minute  when  Iveagh  entered  it 
also,  bearing  the  gun.  The  footpath  he  followed 
upward  emerged  upon  the  hill-top,  and  there  came 
the  view,  so  perfectly  described  to  du  Frettay  by 
Lise.  And  there  also,  in  all  its  solemn  absurdity, 
barring  "the  counties,  and  England,  and  Europe  to 
the  Ural  Mountains,"  with  its  clap-trap  plaster 
columns  and  pseudo-classical  effect,  stood  the  Belve- 
dere. And  there,  on  the  step  of  the  little  temple, 
had  Miss  Ryeborn  prepared  to  establish  herself  hap- 
pily for  the  after-dinner  hours,  since  it  was  sunny 
and  warm.  And  there,  since  it  was  sunny  and 
warm, — and  quiet,  no  harrying  farmers  with  forks 
about, — had  another  personage  already  determined 
to  be  established,  for  a  nice  sleep  and  sun-bath,  after 
a  full  meal.  Inverted,  prolonged  inordinately, — 
just  like  the  Pickle  in  the  flower-bed:  smooth  tawny 
paws  curling  and  spreading,  sheathing  and  unsheath- 
ing slightly, — just  like  the  Pickle's  too:  blissful, 

389 


390  HATCHWAYS 

blinking  eyes,  nose  vibrating  to  an  inward  simmer- 
ing, a  slumber-tune,  deep-seated, — sometimes  a 
heave  of  a  happy  person,  slipping  a  little  further 
into  the  sunshine,  snake-like, — oh! 

"Oh!"  said  Bess.  "Ok!"  And  nothing  more, 
for  long. 

"It"  blinked  at  her,  curious,  wondering, — then 
settled  again,  without  need  of  more  enquiry.  That 
was  all  right.  .  .  . 

It  thought  (Bess  explained  later)  the  pillars,  and 
the  shadows  of  the  pillars!  were  like  bars,  a  trifle. 
Like  enough  to  feel  at  home,  with  a  charming  differ- 
ence,— for  here  you  could  get  out  between.  You 
just  fitted  between,  which  pleased  you.  There  is 
that,  in  your  exact  fastidious  nature,  which  loves  to 
fit.  The  Pickle,  at  times,  had  fitted  into  Uncle 
Rick's  hat,  for  the  same  reason.  Uncle  Rick  did  not 
appreciate  the  reason,  but  Bess  did.  Nice  adjust- 
ment, adequacy,  finish, — the  genius  of  the  just-so, — 
that  is  It. 

Bess  began  to  draw,  rapidly,  furtively,  mapping 
in  its  long  lovely  lines.  Its  face  would  come  pres- 
ently, if  she  had  time  for  it, — if,  of  course,  it  was 
kind  enough  to  allow  her  time.  She  knew  all  about 
the  risks  of  mood-changing,  from  the  Pickle :  and  also 
that  the  after-dinner,  or  Oriental,  mood  is  best.  Of 


IT  391 

course,  she  meant  to  go  and  tell  Ernestine,  away 
down  there,  sooner  or  later,  only — well — art  is  art. 
Not  twice,  nor  once  in  a  lifetime  usually,  does  a  pas- 
sionate student  of  the  cat-tribe  get  the  chance. 

A  shadow  touched  her  page,  and  a  light  Suir  step 
was  audible.  They  moved  so  well,  those  boys,  no 
hint  of  the  Oxborough  clumping.  Of  course,  their 
woodland  studies  helped  them,  but  it  was  part  of 
their  pleasant  presences  too.  She  was  sure  it  was 
he  or  Wickford,  before  she  looked  behind  her.  She 
looked  and  saw — the  right  one.  Did  her  face  be- 
tray it,  welcoming? 

"Oh,  Iveagh,"  said  Bess,  with  a  kind  of  fearful 
joy.  "Look  what  I've  found!  It's  purring!" 

Bess  had  made  friends  with  the  "tiger." 

Iveagh  was  an  Irishman,  luckily.  He  laid  his  gun 
down  inconspicuously  in  a  dry  place,  and  moved 
with  a  smooth  step  to  her  side.  The  creature  was 
passive  after  a  full  meal,  so  much  was  evident.  One 
could  not  judge  for  what  its  taming  went, — there 
was  no  instant  danger,  anyhow,  if  danger  at  all. 
Still,  his  eyes  fixed  it  attentively  as  he  approached, 
the  hunter's  look,  alert  and  steady.  His  attitude 
was  not  Bess's,  quite.  The  depredator  of  his  broth- 
er's farm  had  something  to  answer  for. 

"Hullo !"  said  the  leopard,  lifting  its  head  a  little, 


HATCHWAYS 

eyes    wide.     "Another   of   'em.     Who   are   you*?" 

"I'm  her  brother,  if  that  does,"  said  Iveagh. 

"Not  so  sure,"  said  the  leopard,  but  it  laid  its 
head  back  again.  It  rolled  a  little,  lazily  playful 
in  the  sunlight.  It  had  been  through  some  bad 
hours,  since  yesterday, — anxious  ones, — really  hor- 
rid,— but  it  felt  better,  much  better,  for  goat. 

"Happen  to  know  it's  been  killin'  farm-stock," 
said  Iveagh,  through  his  teeth.  "Better  get  out  of 
it,  do  you  mind?  Wick's  below  there,  waitin'." 

"Oh,  but "  said  Bess.  Seeing  his  steady  gaze 

fixed  past  her,  she  added  unwillingly — "All  right." 

When  she  moved,  the  rolling  creature  looked  at 
her,  over  its  own  head.  It  ceased  its  lazy  sinuous 
movements,  and,  still  comfortably  reclining,  stared 
up,  curling  a  paw.  "Oh,  come,  don't  go,"  it  said. 
"We  were  so  comfortable.  What's  all  this  about1?" 

"Go  on,"  said  Iveagh,  as  the  girl  stopped,  dubious. 

"It's  rather  a  darling,"  she  murmured.  "It  was 
so  good  with  me." 

"Go  on." 

"But  I  mean  it  mightn't  be  if — oh,  Iveagh!" 
She  had  seen  the  gun. 

"Go  on,"  he  said  patiently.  "I  won't  let  it  fol- 
low. You'll  be  quite  safe." 


IT  393 

"Safe4?"  She  saw  the  noosed  rope  in  his  hand, 
and  realised  his  intention  simultaneously.  The  next 
instant — heaps  of  things  occurred.  He  threw  the 
lasso,  since  the  animal  lay  stationary,  watching 
them,  over  the  head.  Then,  with  miraculous  swift- 
ness, he  ran  the  other  long  end  round  a  column  of  the 
Belvedere,  and  knotted  it  with  the  knot  that  does 
not  slip.  Plenty  of  wise,  grown  men, — Professor 
Marchant,  for  instance, — would  have  fumbled  de- 
laying at  that  critical  instant,  while  others  the  world 
calls  dull  or  vague  note  things  like  the  non-slipping 
knot  from  their  earliest  years.  After  which  Iveagh 
retreated  to  his  gun,  while  the  leopard,  waking  with 
a  sharp  snarl,  straining  every  way  on  the  rope  with 
wonderful,  seeking,  passionate  movements,  found 
itself  fast. 

"Oh,    how   beautiful, — how   beautiful!"    almost 

sobbed    Bess.     "Oh,    look,    look    at    it!     Mayn't 
J <2» 

"You  may  not,"  he  returned.  "Go  on  down." 
His  gun  was  in  his  hand,  raised,  levelled, — the  hor- 
ror of  it  seemed  imminent,  to  Bess's  eyes. 

"Please  don't  kill  it,"  she  gasped,  with  a  real  sob. 

"I'll  not,  if  I  can  help  it,"  he  repeated,  in  that 
patient  tone  which  struck  her,  it  was  so  unlike  him. 


394  HATCHWAYS 

"Go  on,  it's  really  all  right,  Miss  Ryeborn.  It  can't 
get  off." 

Miss  Ryeborn !  Was  it  that,  the  title  offered  her, 
that  betrayed  his  real  anxiety4?  Woman-like,  that 
detail  told  her  eyerything,  all  she  needed  to  know. 
Ropes  taken  from  picnic-baskets  are  not  of  necessity 
reliable, — ropes  may  break.  Pillars  of  Early-Vic- 
torian temples, — half -strangled  forest  animals, — 
cats,  beautiful  cats,  clever  cats,  the  most  cunning  of 
created  things 

Bess  whitened,  and  went.  Before  she  went,  she 
put  a  cold  little  hand  down  on  his  warm  one. 
"Iveagh, — don't  let  it  kill  you " 

As  her  steps  retreated  down  the  path,  something 
happened  in  Iveagh,  quiet  as  he  stood,  his  eyes  upon 
the  furious  animal.  His  pale  face  flushed  slightly, 
slowly,  and  his  mouth's  line  changed.  Some  idea  or 
prospect,  beyond  the  immediate  one  of  the  cat  in  the 
temple,  seemed  to  creep  into  his  consciousness.  It 
filled  him^-conviction — he  did  not  want  to  be  killed ! 
Perhaps  an  hour  before,  groping  in  the  great  blank 
of  life  since  Lise's  departure,  he  would  rather  have 
welcomed  the  opportunity  offering  at  present,  a  bat- 
tle royal  with  a  worthy  foe :  a  violent,  possibly  dis- 
agreeable, but  at  least  respectable  end.  But  now — 
no!  Sooner  would  he  kill  that  leopard-cat  (against 


IT  395 

orders)  than  that  leopard-cat  kill  him!  His  face 
took  on  the  arrogant,  human,  hunting-light.  He 
and  the  leopard  were  "social  equals"  no  longer ! 

"Curse  you,  whoever  you  are,"  snarled  the  Cat, 
rolling  and  straining  here,  there,  and  everywhere,  in 
magnificent  attitudes,  a  paw  to  the  rope  about  its 
throat.  "Get  me  out  of  this, — 1  don't  care  for  it, — 
it  hurts." 

"Get  yourself,  if  you  can,"  said  Iveagh.  "Only 
look  out." 

"Good,  there's  a  strand  gone,"  said  the  Cat. 
"Look  out  yourself,  you  common  little  man." 

"Do  you  know  what  this  is1?"  enquired  Iveagh. 

"Not  specially, — I've  forgotten,"  sneered  the  Cat. 
Carelessly,  as  it  lay,  it  eased  the  strain  on  its  throat 
by  winding  the  rope  twice  about  a  strong  leg. 
"Lord,  I've  a  throat-ache!  What  if  I  pulled  this 
toy-temple  down?" 

"Try  and  see,"  said  Iveagh. 

"You  silly  young  ass,"  said  the  Cat,  its  gloomy 
eyes  reddening.  "That's  what  the  goat  said." 
(Crack.)  "Seen  that  goat"?" 

"Found  the  stone-edge  to  work  on,"  commented 
Iveagh.  "Good  line  that.  You'll  hardly  get  hung 
at  this  rate.  Shame  to  shoot  you.  Rotten  shame." 
He  aimed  between  its  eyes. 


396  HATCHWAYS 

"I  give  it  up,"  said  the  Cat,  looking  past  him  arro- 
gantly. "I  don't  want  to  get  off, — never  meant  to, 
really.  I  rather  like  ropes." 

"Know  about  'em  anyhow,"  said  Iveagh. 

"You're  not  so  clever  as  you  think  you  are," 
sneered  the  Cat,  shifting  its  head. 

"I  ain't  boasting',  am  I?"  said  Iveagh,  shifting  the 
gun. 

"I'm  better-class  than  you,"  said  the  C!at. 

"You  ain't,"  said  the  son  of  Suir. 

"My  ancestors "  said  the  Cat,  and  paused. 

"I  say,  suppose  you  go  and  call  that  man  of  mine. 
My  collar  hurts  a  bit.  ...  Or  that  young  lady 
with  the  pretty  paws.  She'd  do, — I  liked  her  quite 
a  lot.  I've  something  to  (Crack)  say  to  her,  in 
private." 

"I'd  like  to  be  sure  this'd  slay  anything  bigger 
than  a  weasel,"  said  Iveagh,  to  himself. 

"What's  that?'  said  the  Cat,  who  did  not  under- 
stand English.  "It  hurts,  I  tell  you.  My  neck's 
sore " 

"Do  you  mean  your  leg?"  said  Iveagh. 

"You're  quite  a  nice  young  fellow,"  said  the  Cat. 
"I  dare  say  your  family's  decent.  (Crack.)  Bar- 
gain, I  say.  Just  look  here " 

Crack.     Snap.     Rumble.     Two  shots  following 


IT  397 

one  another  in  close  succession.  A  roar,  fading  to 
a  choking  snarl.  A  beautiful,  sand-coloured,  strug- 
gling heap  in  the  pathway,  right  outside  the  ruined 
temple, — completely  clear  of  it 

"You  young — idiot!"  said  Sir  George  Trenchard, 
cheerfully,  coming  with  Canon  Oxborough  (of  all 
people)  round  the  other  corner  of  the  Belvedere. 
"Didn't  I  say  dangerous,  in  my  telegram4?" 

"She — she  told  me  not  to  kill  it,"  stammered 
Iveagh,  hopelessly  taken  aback  by  this  denoument, 
and  the  sudden  slackening  of  the  strain.  He  stared 
as  though  fascinated  at  the  sandy  shape  of  Bess's 
Cat, — the  little  trickle  of  fatal  red  by  the  shoulder, 
at  which  the  Canon's  dogs  were  sniffing,  dubiously. 

"Ah, — well,  I'm  afraid  it's  dead,"  said  the  hunter. 
"Twice  over,  probably.  Hold  up,  now."  Laying 
a  hand  on  the  boy's  arm,  for  caution,  he  took  the 
still-loaded  gun  from  him.  "Here's  your  uncle.  I 
say,  Lionel,  hard  luck  on  him.  Perhaps  we  ought  to 
apologise." 

"Yes,"  minced  the  Canon  (who  ought  not  to  have 
been  carrying  fire-arms).  "Rather  beastly,  nippin' 
in  under  his  nose  like  that.  Picking  up  the  swag, — 
eh?  I  say,  Iveagh,  my  lad,  just  look  at  this  temple ! 
Whatever  will  your  mother  say?" 

What  is  a  Duchess  to  do. — we  appeal  to  a  re- 


398  HATCHWAYS 

spectful  world, — engaged  in  making  a  glass  house 
entirely  for  the  good  of  her  family,  as  the  crown  of 
her  life's  devotion  to  her  son's  domain, — deserted  by 
a  second  son  whose  rare  chance  for  real  usefulness 
had  been  pointed  out  to  him  quite  clearly  at  the 
breakfast-table, — slaving  for  others'  interests,  in 
gardening-clothes,  amid  dust  and  paint  and  centi- 
pedes,— who  is  faced  in  succession,  at  the  tail-end 
of  the  working  morning,  by  such  a  telegram  as 
George's, — and  such  news  as  was  handed  her  by  the 
keeper's  boy? 

"Jem,"  said  the  Duchess,  "I  hope  you  have  not 
been  drinking."  (This,  for  the  Duchess,  repre- 
sented Iveagh's — "Rats.") 

"No,  my  lady,"  said  Jem,  dreadfully  frightened. 
"It's  gospel  truth  I  saw  it.  It  crossed,  like,  and 
jumped  the  ditch.  All  yaller,  my  lady." 

"A  cat,"  said  the  Duchess,  wonderfully  serene: 
but  her  eyes  were  on  George's  telegram. 

"No,  my  lady.  Beggin'  your  pardon,"  said  Jem, 
"I  knows  cats.  I  went  home  and  told  'em.  Father 
went  off." 

"Oh,  your  father  believed  you,  did  he?  Well" 
— she  folded  the  telegram  neatly — "as  it  happens, 
I  have  confirmatory  evidence.  So  you  may  be  right 
about  it." 


IT  399 

"I  saw  it,  my  lady." 

"Very  well,"  said  the  Duchess,  glancing  over  the 
details  of  the  glass  house,  at  which  various  people 
resumed  work  as  soon  as  she  glanced.  "And  where, 
exactly1?" 

"Up  by  the  Belvedere,  my  lady."  (Heavens, 
Renie!)  "It'd  been  eating  one  of  Finch's  goats." 

"Rubbish!"  said  the  Duchess  steadily. 

"I  didn't  see  the  goat,"  said  Jem  (who  meant 
to).  "But  Jack  did,  and  Father." 

"Never  mind  about  Jack.  Do  you  mean  the  goat 
was  killed?" 

"They  had  to  kill  it,  my  lady." 

"Oh."  Merciful  Heaven,  those  children!  The 
Duchess's  Oxborough  nature  took  time,  for  dignity's 
sake,  but  any  accustomed  eye  could  have  seen  her 
bitter  disturbance.  "Go  to  the  kitchen,  Jem,  and 
get  your  dinner.  Mention  there,"  said  the  Duchess, 
ever  more  incisively,  "that  I  shall  not  require  lunch- 
eon. Nor  the  Duke, — do  you  hear? — I  want  him." 
As  the  keeper's  boy  retreated,  saluting,  she  raised  her 
voice  in  his  wake.  "And  tell  Michael,  if  you  see 
him,  Sir  George  will  be  back  for  the  night, — another 
night,  make  it  clear." 

Then,  the  messenger  having  gone,  she  dropped 
her  trowel,  took  off  her  gardening-gloves,  and  threw 


400  HATCHWAYS 

them  down,  one  upon  the  other.  She  gave  no 
orders,  left  the  glass  house  to  its  probable  fate  (con- 
sidering the  goat-and-tiger  diversion)  and,  stepping 
swiftly  in  her  trim  firm  fashion,  made  a  bee-line  for 
her  son's  study  windows. 

"Conor!"  she  called  sharply  beneath  them,  using 
the  earliest  of  the  three  names  to  which  it  had  been 
Wickford's  fate  to  answer,  in  the  course  of  his  young 
life.  At  times  of  stress,  his  mother  recurred  to  it 
unconsciously. 

Conor  was  not  there.  Somebody  was,  though. 
"Michael,  where  his  Grace?" 

Gone  away  down  the  park,  Michael  at  the  win- 
dow informed  her. 

Had  he  taken  a  gun? 

He  had  not.  It  was  to  sec  Mrs.  Redgate  his 
Grace  was  going. 

Mrs.  Redgate,  indeed!  Much  more  likely  an- 
other person.  However,  for  once  Wickford  had 
gone  in  the  right  direction  for  his  mother's  needs. 
He  had  anticipated  her.  Renie  and  the  children 
filled  her  horizon,  not  her  own  children,  nor  her 
neighbours  and  friends.  We  shall  not  seek  to  ex- 
plain it,  at  this  point,  nor  need  we,  to  those  who 
s'emballent.  That  is  the  principle  of  their  living, 
one  thing  after  another,  to  the  exclusion  of  all  the 


IT  401 

rest.  It  is  with  us  at  every  turn  in  England — and 
America — and  Germany — not  France:  so  we  pro- 
ceed. 

"Where  is  Lord  Iveagh'?"  said  the  Duchess. 

"I  can't  say,  your  Grace."  Nobody  ever  could. 
Still,  the  chances  were  fair,  that  he  and  Sam  and  so 
on  were  circling  round  that  picnic  party.  The 
chances  were  pretty  fair. 

"Fetch  me  a  gun,  Michael,"  said  the  Duchess. 
"The  best  you  can  find."  She  added — "Two  guns." 

"Yes,  your  Grace."  An  English  servant  would 
have  gaped,  most  probably.  Michael  merely  fol- 
lowed orders,  alert  and  interested.  He  also  knew 
which  guns  were  which,  as  few  of  the  house-servants 
could  be  expected  to  do.  Michael  possessed  that 
inestimable  talent  called  curiosity,  an  open  mind 
beyond  his  own  concerns.  It  made  him  a  bad  foot- 
man, naturally,  but  a  first-rate  friend  to  the  house- 
hold. For  once,  the  Duchess  profited  by  Michael's 
open-minded  friendliness,  which  customarily  she 
condemned.  He  took  her  order  as  a  matter  of 
course,  and  filled  it  out  intelligently  from  his  own 
ideas,  as  was  proved  by  the  kind  of  gun  he  brought 
her.  A  little  later,  Michael  had  the  keeper's  boy's 
ideas  in  the  kitchen  to  help  him,  but  by  that  time 
he  hardly  needed  them.  His  vivid  imagination  had 


403  HATCHWAYS 

got  well  ahead,  and  painted  something  approaching 
to  a  tiger,  already. 

The  Duchess  set  out :  a  solitary,  sufficient*  little 
figure,  carrying  two  guns.  There  was  something 
magnificently  mediaeval  in  it,  thoroughly  obsolete 
and  Oxborough,  which  the  staff  of  Holmer  from  the 
windows  watched  and  admired.  The  Duchess 
might,  of  course,  have  summoned  a  man, — even  a 
man  and  a  dog-cart, — to  assist  her;  but  this  matter 
of  the  school-children,  and  their  defence  on  her  land, 
was  hers.  No  doubt  the  Duchess  trusted  her  boys, 
already  on  the  spot,  more  than  she  realised.  Guns 
or  no  guns,  those  boys  would  manage  it.  Not  for 
a  minute  did  she  admit  such  dependence  on  her  off- 
spring,— she  had  not  come  to  that, — but  it  was  un- 
questionably there.  Unquestionably.  .  .  .  Besides, 
George  was  returning,  he  said  so. 

She  had  given  orders,  all  round,  before  she  left,  of 
course.  The  proper  thing,  to  the  rear  of  her,  was 
being  done.  Messengers  scurrying  to  all  the  neigh- 
bours,— mediaeval  again.  Lionel  warned,  the  only 
brother  in  reach.  Warrener  warned,  and  the  lodges, 
— more  especially  the  lodges  with  children.  Keep 
those  children  at  home,  if  you  please,  or  have  noth- 
ing more  to  do  with  the  Duchess.  And  the  "men" 
informed,  of  course, — that  is,  the  keepers, — even 


IT  403 

Mr.  Marchant.  He  came  after  the  lodges  and  the 
keepers  in  k-er  thoughts,  but  still, — Mr.  Marchant 
mooning  in  the  woods  might  be  in  danger.  Why 
not"? — But  to  the  Belvedere,  Renie,  and  the  chil- 
dren, the  Duchess  went  alone. 

She  met  them  all  returning:  the  Ryeborn  girl, 
and  the  eleven  infants,  all  chirping  about  the  "ti- 
ger" cheerfully :  Conor  and  Iveagh,  as  usual :  Lionel, 
not  quite  as  usual  (knee-breeches) :  and  George. 
George's  presence  made  all  comfortable,  even  before 
he  reassured  her  with  a  word.  The  pest  was  done 
with,  dead.  Just  as  it  should  be.  Just  as — circled 
by  her  stupid  sons — the  Duchess  had  somehow 
thought  probable.  But  where  was  Renie?  And 
where 

"Behind,"  said  Wickford,  shortly,  "just  a  bit  be- 
hind. Miss  Allgood's  a  ripping  little  girl, — but  she 
broke  down." 

"Was  she  frightened?"  said  the  Duchess.  Her 
eyes  lightened  reproach  on  everybody,  Iveagh  espe- 
cially. Reproach  in  reserve  for  the  Ryeborn  girl, 
thus  distracting  Wickford  from  his  obvious  duty  at 
Renie's  side.  What,  could  he  call  her  a  ripping 
little  girl, — quite  rightly, — and  still  come  on  in  the 
advance  guard*?  Shame  on  him,  what  was  he  think- 
ing of? — his  mother's  son! 


404  HATCHWAYS 

"Mrs.  Redgate's  there." 

Oh.  .  .  .  Well,  that  was  all  right,  then.  .  .  . 

"Go  on,"  said  the  Duchess,  to  her  little  world, 
with  urbanity.  "Was  it  a  tiger,  Peter*?  Really? 
Yes,  you  shall  tell  me  about  it  all,  to-morrow,  I'll 
come  down.  .  .  .  You'll  stay  dinner,  Lionel? 
They're  expecting  you  at  the  house,  George.  Oh, 
nonsense,  he  can  manage  without  you."  (Dr.  Ash- 
win,  in  London.)  "What?" — as  Iveagh,  relieving 
his  mother  of  her  warlike  panoply,  the  guns,  which 
she  had  forgotten,  casually  informed  her  that  the 
Belvedere  was  down.  Down?  The  Belvedere? 
Wretched  boy,  what  did  he  mean  by  it? — However, 
that  would  do  later  on.  Renie  came  first,  and  who- 
ever was 

"Go  on,"  said  the  Duchess  to  the  world  again. 

"That  will  come  straight  now,"  said  George  to 
Lionel.  "Mark  my  words." 

"No  accounting  for  Gertrude,"  said  Lionel,  with 
fraternal  philosophy.  "Now  then,  my  young 
friends,  weigh  up!"  Lionel,  in  his  capacity  as 
Canon,  was  kindly  helping  Miss  Ryeborn.  School 
treats,  of  course,  were  nothing  to  him:  he  could 
steer  a  crew  of  eleven  kids  with  one  hand, — his 
nephews  rather  admired  him.  He  was,  in  any  case, 
that  one  of  their  uncles  they  could  do  with  most 


IT  405 

easily:  Iveagh  went  of  his  own  accord  to  pay  him 
visits,  as  we  mentioned  once  before. 

The  infants  and  the  guard  went  on.  The  Duch- 
ess went  backward,  back  along  the  path,  through  the 
budding  copses,  where  the  nightingales  gurgled  dis- 
creetly in  the  gloaming,  and  the  other  wandering 
voice  of  the  cuckoo  echoed  by  day:  across  the  clear- 
ing, to  the  little  broken  shed.  Picnic  remnants,  in- 
cluding Rick's  matches  by  the  dozen,  strewed  the 
foreground;  for  once,  the  Redgates  had  neglected  to 
tidy :  they  were  absolutely  trustworthy  people  at  the 
close  of  picnics,  as  a  rule.  This  picnic  had  not  been 
quite  like  the  common  run  of  Hatchways  picnics,  it 
would  appear.  The  fire  was  steaming  faintly, 
mingling  with  the  dim  blue  April  mists.  The  light 
was  failing  a  little.  A  deserted  battle-field — pos- 
sibly. 

Not  quite  deserted.  Renie  was  in  the  shed,  cry- 
ing, her  head  on  Mrs.  Redgate's  shoulder.  She  had 
done  brilliantly,  nobly,  a  ripping  little  girl,  but  she 
had  broken  down.  Her  voice  was  tired, — her 
throat  ached  like  the  tiger's.  Her  celebrated 
"method"  did  not  include  live  tiger-leopards,  nor 
dead  ones,  nor  men  with  revolvers  still  smoking, 
nor  that  awful  unforgettable  snarl  upon  the  hill. 
It  was  not  fair  on  her,  as  Wickford  contended,  her 


406  HATCHWAYS 

life  altogether  was  too  little  for  it.  And  her  Peter, 
he  was  too  little  for  it  too.  .  .  . 

"All  right,  my  dear,"  said  the  Oxborough  Duch- 
ess, kind  as  Ernestine.  "There  was  no  earthly 
danger,  probably" — she  remembered  George's  tele- 
gram— "Still,  it's  a  nasty  kind  of  thing  to  happen, 
of  course.  Stupid  of  Jem  Hudson  not  to  tell  you 
in  time, — he's  a  stupid  boy, — all  the  family."  She 
caught  the  sly  glint  of  steel  in  the  shadow.  "Oh, 
you've  got  a  gun  too,"  said  the  Duchess. 

"Look  out,  Gertrude,"  said  Mrs.  Redgate,  "it's 
loaded.  I  must  return  it  to-morrow  to  Mr.  War- 
rener,  by  the  cart." 

"Warrener's,  is  it?  You  went  there?  Fetched 
it"? — Ah  yes,  perhaps  it  was  wiser.  One  never  quite 
knows,"  said  the  Duchess,  dreamily,  "with  children 
about.  .  .  .  Ernestine.  .  .  ." 

No,  there  was  no  accounting  for  Gertrude,  cer- 
tainly! Except  by  old  friends,  like  George,  and 
other  women,  like  Ernestine:  who  knew  quite  well. 

Mrs.  Redgate,  returning  later  to  Hatchways, 
from  Holmer,  found  her  husband  expecting  her,  as 
has  been  said:  and  M.  du  Frettay  expecting,  be- 
cause, owing  to  the  Duchess's  great  need  of  Ernes- 
tine, he  had  reached  home  first.  As  for  Bess,  her 


IT  407 

aunt  could  not  at  once  discover  her,  though  she 
looked  all  about.  She  grew  a  trifle  anxious,  debat- 
ing of  claws,  poisoned  scratches,  and  what  not :  since, 
to  judge  by  Iveagh's  account,  Bess  and  the  creature 
had  been  at  close  quarters,  hand  to  hand. 

She  unearthed  her  at  last.  Bess  and  the  grey  kit- 
ten were  in  one  another's  arms  in  the  wash-house, 
the  little  wash-house  beyond  the  scullery,  and  Bess 
was  in  tears, — what  next"?  First  Renie,  then  Ger- 
trude, now  Bess  of  all  people!  She  hardly  ever 
cried. 

"My  dear  child,  what  is  it*?"  said  Mrs.  Redgate, 
coming  up  to  her  hastily.  Bess  might  have  been 
through  something, — indeed  she  had  been  going 
through  much,  for  long, — but  she  had  faced  her  for- 
tune upright,  bravely.  Now 

"You  weren't  frightened'?"  said  Ernestine,  half- 
chaffing,  to  encourage  her.  But  no,  it  was  not  fear. 
Fear  was  about  the  last  thing  it  was,  in  Bess's  case. 

"Oh,"  gasped  Bess.  "Oh,  Ernestine,  he  killed  it! 
Not  him, — Sir  George  did, — and  it's  dead !  Killed 
it  with  a  horrible  gun,  and  I  liked  it  so  dreadfully. 
It  was  sweet  with  me, — purring, — I  could  have 
made  it  good.  It  might  have — stayed  the  night 
here  at  Hatchways,  and — gone  on  to  Reading  in  the 
morning.  It — needn't  have  been  shot  like  that  for 


408  HATCHWAYS 

nothing.  N — nothing  but  a  goat.  It — didn't  un- 
derstand property  acts.  It  was — hungry,  like 
Pickle.  When  Pickle  is  hungry,  we  give  him 
things, — lots  of  things,  he's  so  greedy!  It — hadn't 
had  a  nice  life."  (A  gasp  of  agony.)  "It  only 
wanted  talking  to, — explaining.  Now  I  can't  ex- 
plain,— and  it  can't  purr  any  longer.  Oh,  and  it 
liked  me, — trusted, — and  I  left  it " 

Thus  Bess,  and  her  voice  died  fur-muffled,  ago- 
nised under  fur.  The  Pickle  served  her,  unwill- 
ingly, for  a  pocket-handkerchief.  She  was  mourn- 
ing for  that  leopard-cat,  dead  on  the  heights  in  his 
young  glory,  beside  the  broken  Belvedere.  Her 
point  of  view  was  not  Sir  George's,  nor  Gertrude's, 
nor  Ernestine's,  nor  the  circus-manager's,  least  of 
all !  Only  Iveagh  came  anywhere  near  it,  as  usual. 
Bess  was  Bess. 

"Goose,"  said  Ernestine,  kissing  her.  "What 
else  do  you  expect  of  an  African  hunter?  And  the 
goat  might  have  Peter.  Come  to  tea." 


XXII 
CAPTURE  OF  THE  HERO 

M.  DU  FRETTAY  went  back  to  France, — his  mother 
wanted  him.  It  had  been  pending  for  long,  mena- 
cing in  the  Parisian  background, — now  it  took  place. 

"Come,  Gabriel,"  directed  Madame  du  Frettay,  in 
a  severe  telegram:  not  to  be  disregarded,  as  he  ex- 
plained. He  had  to  explain  it,  because  the  Suir 
boys,  grouped  round  the  telegram  on  the  Holmer 
chimneypiece,  scoffed  at  it.  Sam  scoffed  too.  Ade- 
laide scoffed,  almost  violently. 

"You  never  mean  yotfre  tied  to  apron-strings," 
scoffed  Adelaide.  "You?" 

M.  du  Frettay,  bold  and  experienced,  adventur- 
ous,— a  flyer, — gazed  at  the  telegram.  He  indi- 
cated it,  mutely.  There  it  was.  It  faced  them. 
Let  them  say  what  they  liked,  that  message  in  two 
words  replied. 

"Certainly  you  had  better  go,"  said  the  Duchess. 

"Of  course,"  said  Ernestine. 

M.  du  Frettay  swr>t  the  Suir  boys  aside.     He 

409 


410  HATCHWAYS 

neglected  Sam,  he  wiped  out  Adelaide.  He  passed 
the  Duchess  over,  with  the  requisite  flourish  of 
courtesy.  But  he  took  Mrs.  Redgate  to  task. 

"You  have  had  enough  of  me,"  he  delicately  sug- 
gested, remembering  Lise. 
"Not  at  all,"  said  Ernestine. 
"Anything  but  it,"  said  Rick. 
"Still,  you  send  me,  Madame.     You  despatch*?" 
"Not  at  all,"  said  Ernestine.     "Your  desire  des- 
patches you."     She  added — "Your  wish." 
"My  wish  to  leave  Hatchways,  hem1?" 
"Not  the  least.     Your  wish  to  go  home." 
"I  am  devoted,"  said  M.  du  Frettay,  gazing  at 
the  sky,  for  they  were  out  of  doors,  "to  my  mother. 
I  have  every  intention,  always, — within  reason, — of 
doing  what  she  says.     But  how  can  I  leave  Hatch- 
ways'?"    He  lowered  his  blue  eyes. 
It  was  suggested — by  the  usual  train. 

M.  du  Frettay  left  Hatchways  by  the  usual  train. 
He  did  what  was  required  of  him,  by  the  best 
judges,  and  Mme.  du  Frettay:  but  first,  he  defined 
his  position.  He  simply  had  to,  it- was  his  French 
nature.  You  would  not  have  had  him  leave  Hatch- 
ways all  anyhow,  without  rendering  account  to  him- 
self (as  he  would  say)  of  his  exact  relation  to  it  and 


CAPTURE    OF    THE    HERO  411 

all  its  contents, — to  its  mistress  above  all1?  No,  the 
effort  was  necessary. 

It  was  also  interesting.  It  took  him  a  whole 
night. 

"I  love  her,"  premissed  M.  du  Frettay.  "Cer- 
tainly. I  worship  her  almost,  like  Iveagh.  No, 
not  like  him, — he  knew  her  as  a  little  schoolboy, — 
how  could  it  be  the  same?  I  am  of  her  age, — 
virtually, — so  my  devotion  means  more.  She  is 
unique, — she  is  delightful.  She  is  everything  I 
have  hitherto  dreamed  woman  could  be.  Cold, — 
she*?  Common, — that?  She  is  unmatchable,  cer- 
tainly in  France, — in  her  country,  most  probably. 
She  is  unmatchable:  and  she  is  ill-matched." 

Then  he  thought  about  that,  the  menage,  for  a 
period:  the  palpably  ridiculous  combination  with 
Rick.  Useless!  Quite  useless:  criticise  as  he 
would,  rally  it,  rail  at  it,  he  could  not  see  it  other- 
wise. Not  care  for  her  husband"?  But  she  did,  she 
was  devoted.  She  was  satisfied  too,  in  her  beauti- 
fully modest  way.  She  had  opened  her  heart  to  all, 
in  default  of  Rick,  and  so  found  satisfaction, — was 
that  it?  But  that  would  mean  he,  Gabriel,  was  one 
of  a  crowd,  just  as  others  to  her,  just  comprised  in 
the  glow  her  great  benevolence  projected  upon  the 
common  human  family.  The  masses.  No! 


HATCHWAYS 

No:  she  liked  him,  his  own  person,  especially. 
Not  as  Iveagh,  not  as  Rick, — she  had  shown  it  him 
many  times.  Discreetly,  sweetly,  still  she  had 
shown  it  him, — perhaps  not  intentionally.  He  was 
what  she  considered  a  man  should  be.  ...  Well, 
then!  Gabriel  had  dealt  before,  in  life,  with  that 
situation.  He  had  but  to  rouse  himself,  resume  all 
those  delicately  polished  weapons  he  had  left  behind 
for  a  period,  owing  to  the  irresistible  monoplane. 
He  had  proved  them,  in  so  many  encounters,  for- 
merly. He  had  but  to  rouse,  work  this  leave-taking 
to  his  advantage,  and  so  forth, — that  was  all. 

Yes,  but  he  did  not  want  to!  He  did  not  want 
to  change  her,  even  if  he  could.  His  desire — wish 
— was  to  have  her,  now  and  for  ever,  just  as  she 
was.  Radiant,  still,  suffusing,  as  those  early  au- 
tumn days,  that  are  so  much  more  beautiful  than 
the  summer,  so  much  more  cordial,  pensive, — Heav- 
ens, how  lovely  were  certain  looks,  certain  attitudes, 
in  service  or  in  meditation.  And  she  knew  trouble, 
too, — she  had  told  him.  There  was  storm  behind. 
Was  that  the  difference,  possibly,  that  she  stood  for 
conquest"?  Three  uncommonly  pretty  girls,  in  first 
youth,  it  had  been  M.  du  Frettay's  far  from  dis- 
agreeable fate  to  set  beside  her, — one  lovely  quite 


CAPTURE    OF    THE    HERO  413 

without  the  common  rule.  Yet  she  had  emerged 
triumphant.  Triumphant,  conquering, — unconquer- 
able?—Ha,  voila! 

Exquisite  problem  of  her  being,  never  to  be 
solved.  How  could  it  be?  If  he  did  not  solve  it, 
no  other  man  would,  he  was  certain.  Had  he  not 
been  certain  of  that — but  he  was.  This  was  his 
chance,  his  alone,  and  he  refused  it.  What  then 
could  be  his  real  position?  How  could  he  so  feel, 
ardently,  humbly,  and  renounce?  Adore,  and 
leave,  as  he  was  doing:  as  he  fully  purposed  to  do. 
And  come  back  at  the  first  opportunity !  R-rather ! 
For  Ernestine  held  him  fast  in  her  delicate  indefina- 
ble toils.  He  was  bound,  literally  bound,  to  return 
to  Hatchways,  whenever  he  could,  and  as  fast  as 
possible.  Heavens,  here  was  the  crux! 

Just  towards  the  daylight,  when  the  Holmer  cocks 
began  to  crow,  and  the  Hatchways  swallows  to  twit- 
ter,— when  M.  du  Frettay,  outwearied  with  earnest 
philosophical  researching,  for  hours,  was  dropping 
asleep, — abandoning  the  fray,  alas,  or  postponing 
it, — in  a  half-sleeping,  half-waking  flash,  his  defini- 
tion came  to  him.  He  had  it.  Had  he  it?  No, — 
yes.  He  was  in  love  with  not  being  in  love  with 
her.  That  is  to  say,  with  loving  her  merely. 


414  HATCHWAYS 

Which    was    where   he    started.  .  .  .  Excellent, — 
charming!     More,  it  was  the  case! 

Done  it,  as  the  boys  said:  the  nice  boys,  sleeping 
out  there  at  Holmer.  Done  it,  thank  Heaven! 
M.  du  Frettay  turned  his  dark  head  on  his  white 
pillows,  content,  and  slept. 

"Good-bye,"  said  Ernestine  under  the  larch-trees. 
"Come  again." 

"Come  again  soon,"  said  pretty  Bess,  with  the 
Pickle  on  her  arm.  "Don't  forget  us." 

Forget  them! — arm-in-arm  as  they  stood,  in  the 
soft  swaying  shadows  of  feathery  larch. 

"Come  on,  man,"  said  Rick.     "You'll  be  late." 

He  kissed  their  hands  in  turn,  hands  very  like  in 
their  strength  and  shapeliness.  He  did  not  thank, 
for  how  on  earth  could  he  begin  to  thank  her"?  She 
had  taught  him, — only  taught  him, — what  England 
could  be.  Bess,  with  her  sweet  oddities  and  whims 
among  animals  had  helped, — she  was  very  English: 
but  Ernestine  held  the  secret:  held  it  and  would 
hold,  for  Gabriel's  spirit  for  ever.  Fresh  earth,  soft 
shadows,  and  grey  skies.  Rare  sunshine,  the  more 
loved  when  coming.  Much  rain,  wisely  tolerated. 
Tranquil  lives  of  give-and-take  with  the  simpler 
creatures.  Heroes  and  hero-worship.  Fixed  hearts, 


CAPTURE    OF    THE    HERO          415 

clear  eyes,  and  open  arms.  That  was  Hatchways, 
and  England — probably! 

"They  are  a  well-intentioned  people,"  said  a  per- 
son behind  du  Frettay,  on  the  Dover  boat,  as  a  group 
of  his  countrymen  stood  to  watch  the  retreating 
cliffs.  "If  not  effective  always — however,  I  salute 
their  good  intentions." 

"I  salute  Ernestine,"  said  du  Frettay  in  spirit: 
and  he  left  these  shores. 

As  it  happened,  he  left  something  behind  him, — 
besides  his  heart,  which  goes  without  saying.  He 
was  thinking  about  the  monoplane  and  other  matters 
while  he  packed:  and  besides,  he  made  the  mistake 
of  refusing  assistance.  Miss  Ryeborn,  as  her  aunt 
was  engaged,  offered  her  help  upon  the  staircase: 
but  M.  du  Frettay,  whose  thoughts  were  already  in 
France,  since  he  was  packing  to  return  there,  refused 
gravely.  He  thought  it  indecorous  to  have  a  young 
and  pretty  girl  packing  with  him  in  his  room.  He 
was  thinking  so  Frenchly,  that  it  even  seemed  to  him 
Bess  should  not  have  proposed  it.  ...  Later,  he 
regretted  it,  of  course.  He  had  accumulated  stacks 
of  things  at  Hatchways,  things  for  himself,  and 
things  for  his  friends,  and  for  his  mother,  and  for 
the  young  lady  he  might  marry  some  time,  who  all 


416  HATCHWAYS 

gave  him  commissions.  It  was  really  quite  a  dis- 
tracting business,  getting  them  together,  and  reckon- 
ing them  up. 

Consequently,  M.  du  Frettay  left  an  intensely 
precious  "carnet,"  and  commissioned  Iveagh  by  let- 
ter and  several  telegrams  to  look  for  it,  somewhere 
towards  the  end  of  May.  Again,  he  would  have 
done  far  better  to  commission  the  Hatchways  ladies, 
but  he  was  too  polite.  Besides,  the  carnet  being 
pocket-size,  might  be  anywhere, — hence  the  tele- 
grams. He  kept  on  thinking  of  new  places  where  it 
might  be. 

The  Wickford  family  was  by  then  in  town,  for 
Gabriel  did  not  get  to  work  immediately  on  reaching 
home.  He  had  to  look  up  various  friends  in  Paris : 
including  the  people  who  had  really  (unknown  to 
everybody  except  Iveagh)  sent  him  to  England. 
He  had  to  give  these  latter  a  free  translation, 
couched  in  terrible  slang,  of  what  the  "types"  at  the 
English  Admiralty  said.  All  this  took  time.  Fur- 
ther, Iveagh,  though  interested  by  the  telegrams, 
postponed  for  a  time  the  friendly  duty  they  sug- 
gested. He  intended  to  look  for  Gabriel's  thing, 
down  at  Holmer,  long  before  he  did.  Iveagh  had 
a  habit,  contracted  early  in  life,  when  habits  are 
firmest,  of  believing  things  never  really  get  lost, 


CAPTURE    OF    THE    HERO          417 

merely  lie  about  visibly  appertaining  to  their  own- 
ers until  somebody  puts  a  hand  upon  them.  He 
had  once  left  a  saddle  in  the  main  street  of  Castle 
Wickford  for  three  days  including  market-day,  no- 
body thinking  of  touching  it,  since  it  was  known  to 
belong  to  a  certain  horse.  "That'll  be  Rory's  sad- 
dle," said  the  passers,  at  intervals.  "They'll  be 
fetching  it  from  the  Castle  soon."  Thus  Irishly 
may  he  have  thought  of  Gabriel's  carnet.  However 
it  may  be,  it  was  not  till  the  Duchess  came  down  for 
a  late  Whitsun  week-end  that  Iveagh,  graciously 
attaching  himself  to  his  mother's  house-party  for  the 
purpose,  really  got  to  work. 

Even  then,  Saturday  he  was  still  busy  in  the  sta- 
bles and  about  the  place;  but  Sunday  morning 
church-time  really  suited  him.  It  seemed  appropri- 
ate. He  routed  about  with  Michael's  assistance  in 
Wick's  room  and  elsewhere  on  Holmer  premises; 
and  then — having  acquired  all  sorts  of  things,  but 
not  the  carnet — strolled  down  the  Avenue  and  lane 
to  Hatchways:  where  he  was  received,  after  an  in- 
terval, in  a  painting  pinafore,  by  Bess. 

"How's  yourself?"  asked  Iveagh,  not  at  all  sur- 
prised to  see  her,  though  she  was  no  more  a  matter 
of  course  than  he  was.  She  was  merely  down  at  her 
aunt's  for  a  Whitsun  week-end  too.  Bess  having 


418  HATCHWAYS 

been  early  to  church  like  a  good  girl,  was  now  hav- 
ing a  quiet  working-morning  without  anybody,  while 
the  household  sat  at  the  Vicar's  sermon.  Iveagh 
entered  into  her  feelings  at  being  disturbed,  and  of- 
fered to  go  away  again  "till  she  felt  like  it," — they 
were  such  nice  sympathetic  boys.  However,  Bess 
took  a  time  off,  and  soon  extracted  his  business. 

"It  isn't  here,"  said  Bess,  of  the  carnet,  "or  Ernes- 
tine would  have  sent  it  long  ago." 

This  was  a  new  light  to  Iveagh,  that  anyone  could 
say  for  certain  whether  a  thing  was  in  a  house  or  no. 

"He  might  have  mislaid  it,"  he  murmured 
vaguely. 

Thereupon,  Bess  let  him  look,  just  to  show  him 
what  order,  in  a  house  like  theirs,  amounted  to.  She 
took  him  to  her  uncle's  study,  and  the  library,  and 
Gabriel's  room  upstairs,  and  opened  drawers  for 
him,  and  threw  cupboard  doors  wide,  in  silent 
demonstration.  Iveagh  was  soon  discouraged  visi- 
bly, as  to  the  chances  of  "mislaying"  anything,  for 
good,  at  Hatchways.  He  became  cast-down,  as  he 
should  be,  and  stood  in  perplexity. 

"He  has  it  in  his  pocket,  the  man,"  he  murmured. 
"One  of  his  coats."  All  Iveagh's  immediate  ac- 
quaintance had  tried  to  make  him  pronounce  Ga- 


CAPTURE    OF    THE    HERO  419 

briel's  first  name,  which  they  were  certain  he  used, 
fruitlessly.  "He"  or  "the  man"  sufficed  him. 

"I  don't  think  M.  du  Frettay  is  at  all  like  that," 
objected  Bess.  "And  if  he  had  found  it  himself," 
she  added,  "he  would  have  telegraphed." 

"Why?"  said  Iveagh. 

"Is  it  dreadfully  important?"  said  Bess  presently. 
They  had  now  got  down  to  Hatchways  door. 

"Well — he  wired  three  times  in  two  weeks  he 
wanted  it." 

"Oh,  Iveagh!" — dimpling  in  despair  of  him. 
"And  you  only  tell  us  now."  Pause,  Bess  hanging 
on  the  door.  "He  carried  his  notebooks  about  with 
him  everywhere,"  she  ventured.  "Always  taking 
things  down." 

Iveagh  agreed.  "He  set  me  right  from  one  of 
them  once  about  my  mother's  own  relations.  Even 
the  Elphinstones,"  said  Iveagh,  chucking  a  stone  at 
a  bird,  "he  had  straight  in  his  mind  before  he  left. 
You  would  have  said  it  concerned  him.  .  .  .  But 
this  was  not  that  sort,"  he  added.  "It's  figures,  he 
says." 

"Oh.  Perhaps,"  said  Bess  demurely,  "it's  in  one 
of  your  pockets.  You  did  figures  for  him,  didn't 
you?" 


420  HATCHWAYS 

"I  did,"  said  Iveagh.  They  had  now  got  away 
from  Hatchways,  on  towards  the  larch-trees,  Bess 
having  left  her  pinafore,  par  prudence.,  behind  her 
in  the  hall.  "You  might  bring  me,"  he  hinted,  "a 
bit  along  the  road." 

"I'm  not  really  dressed,  you  know,"  said  Bess, 
coming.  "We  might  meet  some  Church  people." 

Iveagh  admitted  they  might.  They  went  along 
the  road.  It  was  a  nice  day,  uncertain,  with  bits  of 
sun.  There  was  a  little  breeze  about,  occasionally, 
making  the  leaves  twinkle,  and  turning  the  dust. 
The  lane  smelt  of  what  lanes  do  smell  of,  in  May 
that  is  nearly  June.  The  principal  scent  (exclud- 
ing dust)  was  that  little  herb-plant  called  ground- 
ivy,  and  of  course  omnipresent  grass.  Grass  makes 
a  good  half  of  the  scents  of  England,  at  least  until 
the  hay:  and  none  of  the  Holmer  fields  were  cut  as 
yet. 

"Are  you  off  soon4?"  said  Bess  shyly:  he  was  so 
silent. 

"When  I've  picked  up  a  few  diseases." 

"Diseases?  Oh,  must  you  be  inoculated? 
Doesn't  it  hurt?" 

"I'll  tell  you  in  a  week's  time,"  said  Iveagh,  hold- 
ing the  Holmer  gate  open.  "Come  a  little  along 
the  Avenue,"  he  mentioned.  "Mother's  at  church." 


CAPTURE    OF    THE    HERO 

"I  shall  be  in  London  in  a  week,"  said  Bess,  com- 
ing doubtfully. 

"So  will  I  be.  Why,"  challenged  Iveagh,  as  the 
gate  fell  behind  him,  "do  we  never  see  you  in  Lon- 
don, Bess?' 

Well,  how  should  they1?  Wickford  would  not 
have  asked  such  a  question.  One  would  not  "drop 
in"  on  the  Wickfords  in  London  as  in  the  country, — 
not  that  she  did  here.  Besides,  Iveagh's  mother  did 
not  like  her, — she  thought  he  might  have  realised 
that. 

"I  don't  do  much  calling,"  she  said  gently.  "I've 
really  hardly  got  the  clothes." 

Clothes'?  Iveagh  glanced  at  her  sidelong.  Her 
little  blue  cotton  gown  and  fluttering  white  collar 
made  him  think  of  a  certain  butterfly  of  the  uplands, 
— he  knew  the  name.  It  was  cleft  at  the  throat 
according  to  the  fashion  of  that  year,  which  was  a 
good  fashion.  Altogether,  Iveagh  could  not  con- 
ceive his  Aunt  Isabel,  on  a  Sunday,  looking  half  so 
nice. 

Bess  blushed  when  his  eyes  turned  in  her  direction. 

"I'm  poor,"  she  said, — perhaps  a  little  fiercely. 

"There's  a  pair  of  us  then,"  Iveagh  consoled  her. 
"Do  you  like  these  trees'?" 

"No,  I  can't  abide  them,"  said  Bess,  still  fierce. 


422  HATCHWAYS 

"Of  course,"  she  added,  "they  belong  to  your 
brother.  Never  mind  what  I  say." 

"I'll  tell  him  you  can't  abide  them,"  said  Iveagh, 
propitiating.  "He's  with  you  too,  and  so  was  she, 
but  there'll  never  be  anything  done  with  them  while 
mother's  alive.  .  .  .  Bess." 

"Well?'  said  Bess. 

"You've  the  clothes  to  ride  in,  anyhow.  Suppose 
we  fetched  you  one  mornin'  for  ridin', — any  you 
like."  He  was  clearly  pleased  by  this  solution,  the 
common  one  in  a  Suir  world, — horses. 

"Thank  you."  She  laughed  sweetly,  having  re- 
covered. "There's  only  one  objection,  Iveagh, — 
rather  serious,  though.  I  don't  ride." 

He  swung  on  his  heel  and  transfixed  her  fully, 
really  looked  her  in  the  face.  Not  ride?  Equally 
amazing  he  had  never  dreamt  of  it,  owing  to  the 
excuse  of  that  eternal  easel  when  their  parties 
formed.  Iveagh  seemed  really  put  out  for  the  mo- 
ment. Next  he  grew  grave  to  sourness,  walking  at 
her  side.  All  along  the  Avenue  he  had  nothing  to 
say,  looking  in  front  of  him:  but  within  he  was 
thinking  urgently,  modelling  all  things  with  rapid 
fingers  to  a  new  need.  Not  ride,  the  girl?  Impos- 
sible! Not  to  be  borne  for  a  minute, — for  more 
than  three  minutes. 


CAPTURE    OF    THE    HERO  423 

As  they  came  out  upon  the  drive,  behold,  a 
glistening  horse.  A  chestnut,  well-kept  and  nicely 
saddled  for  a  lady,  held  by  Tim.  Tim  was  in  the 
act  of  turning  its  head  towards  the  stable. 

"There's  Ebony,  that'll  do  us,"  remarked  Iveagh: 
he  being  acquainted  with  every  horse  in  the  district, 
and  having  bought  most  of  them. 

"Oh,  but  it's  Adelaide's,"  said  Bess.  Nowadays 
she  hardly  knew  Adelaide.  She  continued  her  pro- 
tests, growing  alarmed:  but  Iveagh  was  calm, — 
cloudless.  What  could  it  matter  whose  the  horse 
was,  since  he  needed  him4?  Up  she  went! 

"We'll  come  round  the  long  way  to  the  stable," 
said  Iveagh,  casually  dismissing  Tim.  Tim,  aban- 
doning the  bridle  to  him,  looked  on  cannily,  but 
quite  without  surprise.  One  had,  being  Tim,  only 
to  change  countries  to  follow  Lord  Iveagh's  pro- 
ceedings perfectly.  Over  there,  the  mere  adopting 
of  another  lady's  horse  for  twenty  minutes  or  so, 
was  as  natural  as  rain  out  of  a  blue  sky,  which  hap- 
pens there  constantly.  It  was  true,  Tim's  respected 
master  was  dealing,  at  this  minute,  with  an  English 
young  lady:  still,  he  trusted  him  by  old  experi- 
ence, having  picked  her  out  of  the  mass,  to  work  her 
in. 

Bess,  palpitating  with  mingled  pride,  panic,  and 


424  HATCHWAYS 

shyness,  was  worked  in  rapidly.  She  set  her  little 
slipper  in  his  hand,  as  directed,  and  was  lightly 
lifted  upon  Ebony,  Adelaide's  horse.  (Why 
Ebony,  for  a  chestnut,  everyone  had  forgotten, — it 
was  a  joke.)  Panic  was  not  the  smallest  part  of 
her  sensations.  Horses  were  quite  without  the 
range  of  her  studies  hitherto:  and — "Oh,  will  it 
move*?" — was  in  consequence  her  first  remark. 

"He  will  not,  at  present,"  said  Iveagh,  exquisitely 
amused.  Of  all  things  in  heaven  or  earth — this,  of 
all  girls!  He  could  hardly  believe  it.  However, 
he  was  serious,  or  nearly  so;  and  since  it  was  evident 
Bess  did  not  know  by  the  light  of  nature  where  knee, 
elbow,  and  ankle  ought  to  be,  he  put  them  right 
with  gentle  touches,  and,  gathering  up  the  reins, 
slipped  them  through  her  hand.  Then  he  removed 
her  other  hand  from  Ebony's  mane,  absently.  Then 
he  took  a  general  view  of  her  with  one  eyebrow 
lifted, — not  bad.  It  seemed,  he  did  not  despair  of 
her  figure  on  horseback  eventually, — some  time 
hence. 

"Now  then,"  he  encouraged,  a  hand  to  the  horse's 
head, — and  at  once  Bess  clutched  him.  Clutched 
his  shoulder, — this  was  cowardly! 

"You  must  not,"  said  Iveagh,  as,  apologising  with 
a  look  to  Ebony,  he  stopped  him  again. 


CAPTURE    OF    THE    HERO  425 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Bess,  drooping.  "I  was  afraid 
you  were  going " 

"I'll  not  leave  you,"  said  Iveagh  quietly.  "This 
horse  is  eleven  years  and  three  months, — not  a  frolic 
in  him." 

Bess  drooped  more,  her  blue  eyes  lowered  humbly. 
Such  knowledge  of  a  horse's  birthday  reduced  her 
quite.  That  he  should  have  to  say  it,  too, — to 
Ebony's  face 

"Don't  make  it  go  fast,"  she  murmured. 

"Him,"  said  Iveagh.  "And  leave  that  looser, 
I'll  see  to  it."  His  hand  came  back  to  hers,  for  the 
moment,  then  slipped  behind  her.  "If  you  fall, 
you'll  fall  on  to  me,"  he  said,  encouraging.  "But 
you  cannot,  if  you  sit  easy.  Walkin',  it's  not  pos- 
sible. Now  then " 

Well,  it  was  nicer  than  Bess  had  thought. 
Ebony  was  real,  came  to  life  beneath  her,  a  big 
breathing  animal.  He  had  a  personality,  a  pres- 
ence majestic,  if  saturnine.  He  had  manners  too. 
He  must,  of  necessity,  have  been  scoffing  in  spirit, 
exchanging  bright  glances  with  the  Suir  beside  him, 
and  used  to  adequate  Amazons,  like  Adelaide. 
Still  he  contained  his  equine  mirth,  phlegmatically, 
— better  than  Iveagh  did.  Ebony  was  an  Oxbor- 
ough,  possibly. 


426  HATCHWAYS 

They  went  the  long  way  to  the  stable  by  the 
Shrubberies,  under  shadow,  then  sun,  then  shadow 
again.  Bess  rode  in  dreamland,  in  a  legend  some- 
where,— a  very  ancient  legend, — wondering  if  it 
were  real.  So  far  from  home, — how  she  even  came 
there 

"Is  that  right?"  said  Iveagh  presently,  slipping 
back  a  look. 

"It's  lovely,"  murmured  Bess.  "He's  a  darling. 
I  never  knew " 

"Of  course  ye  did  not,"  said  Iveagh,  consoling. 
"You'll  come  on  to  it."  He  considered  whether  to 
tell  her  that  she  sat  quite  well,  and  decided  against. 
Next  time,  if  her  present  progress  continued.  .  .  . 
"Will  you  go  on  to  the  yard,  or  dismount  here1?" 

"Oh,  here,  please,"  said  Bess,  with  a  thought  of 
eyes,  professional  though  polite,  about  the  stables. 
She  was  not  even  attired  correctly, — far  from  it. 
Her  cotton  skirt  was  a  trifle  short.  .  .  .  And  Sun- 
day. .  .  .  No,  better  dismount  where  she  was,  in 
the  discreet  depths  of  the  shrubbery.  It  was  quiet. 
.  .  .  Quiet!  Little  did  she  know  his  tricks!  No 
quieter  corner  on  the  estate  than  the  Holmer  Shrub- 
beries of  old  cropped  hawthorns,  which  surging  over 
them  made  dimness,  the  scent  of  the  leaves  hanging 


CAPTURE    OF    THE    HERO  427 

round.  Hawthorn  leaves,  sweeter  to  breathe  than 
its  cruel  flowers,  ever  crueller  as  the  season  ages. 
.  .  .  But  now  the  flowers  were  done,  and  the  apple- 
scent  of  the  leaves  hung  only,  mellower,  more  last- 
ing, fresh  as  a  final  truth.  .  .  .  Besides,  how  should 
Bess,  unused  to  horse-company,  realise  what  "dis- 
mounting" meant?  Mounting,  though  breathless  a 
little,  had  been  swift,  soon  over.  Now  she  came 
right  into  his  arms  and 

"Iveagh!"  she  said,  with  a  litle  sob. 

"Quiet,"  he  said  softly  to  the  horse,  which  being 
loosened,  snatched  at  the  leaves.  "Are  you  fright- 
ened, darlin'?" 

Frightened? — with  him?  The  day  changed  col- 
our. The  leaf-scent  swept  over  her  like  immortal 
incense.  Every  lazy  little  piping  bird  of  Holmer 
shrubberies  broke  into  song.  It  was  so,  this  was 
himself,  his  arms  about  her,  the  hand  she  had  always 
loved  and  trusted  gathering  her  face  with  delicate 
strength  to  his. 

"Not  here,"  she  gasped,  the  Puritan  of  the  north 
striving  in  her.  "Not  now " 

"Don't  you  believe  I  may?"  His  strange  melan- 
choly pierced  her,  at  very  close  quarters.  "It  was 
not  for  want  of  wishing — but  she  never  let  me," 


428  HATCHWAYS 

came  the  confession,  true  into  her  spirit,  from  his 
eyes.  "Do  you  believe  that?"  he  asked,  in  his  own 
person. 

"I'm  afraid,"  she  confided,  shuddering  at  herself, 
"I  shouldn't  care." 

He  laughed,  breathing  easily  now.  Utterly  his, 
he  had  known  it.  No  hint  of  smallness,  jealousy, 
carping, — she  could  not. 

"You're  the  girl  of  all  girls,"  he  swore.  "There 
was  never  much  doubt  of  it." 

"But  you're  very  insulting,  Iveagh, — never  much 
doubt!" 

"Well,  I'm  goin'  to  insult  you  further.  Come 
on, — coquettin'." 

Coquetting! — when  she  was  trying  to  behave! 
"Say  something  nicer  first,"  she  pleaded. 

"I'll  show  you  nicer." 

"But  it's  Sunday." 

"Well,  there  are  six  worse  days." 

"Oh,"  she  gasped,  hiding  her  head.  "I  don't 
know  why  I  like  you." 

"You  don't  like  me, — you  do  not,  Bess.  Let's 
see  how  little  you  do,"  said  Iveagh. 

"I  don't  know" — muffled, — "what  you  want  me 
to " 

She  never  finished.     The  terror  of  love,  and  its 


CAPTURE    OF    THE    HERO  429 

truth,  for  they  are  one  and  simultaneous,  met  her 
and  carried  her  away.  Lost  for  ever,  no  doubt  of 
it:  and  found,  in  the  same  breath.  And  Iveagh 
found  himself  too  quite  easily:  took  the  last  step 
to  safety:  touched  the  other  end  of  his  youth's 
troubled  tangle  without  fumbling,  in  the  lips  of  an 
honest  girl. 


XXIII 
CURTAIN  DOWN 

BESS  hoped  Tim  did  not  notice  the  difference  when 
she  reached  the  stable,  though  how  anyone  in  the 

world  should  not !     Tim,  oddly  enough,  looked 

much  the  same.  He  seemed  chiefly  concerned  about 
Ebony.  Obviously,  he  did  not  dare  to  question 
Iveagh's  doings  in  delaying  the  Duchess's  visitor's 
horse  from  proper  care  for  so  long  a  period, — for 
several  centuries.  Anyhow,  Tim  gave  no  sign. 
Nor  did  he  seem  aged,  he  was  young  and  cheery.  .  .  . 
But  there  was  worse  to  come. 

Hardly  were  she  and  Iveagh  out  of  the  stable- 
yard,  through  the  gate  into  the  garden,  making,  of 
course,  for  Hatchways  by  a  roundabout  route  when 
— what  do  you  think?  The  Honourable  Mrs.  Cour- 
tier in  a  habit  (horror!)  and  Lady  Oxborough,  and 
the  Duchess  of  Wickford  in  person, — without  ex- 
ception the  three  most  overpowering  feminine  pres- 
ences in  that  countryside, — were  seen  issuing  from 
the  Duchess's  new  glass  house.  Two  of  them  back 
from  church  in  a  loftily-surperior  after-sermon 

430 


CURTAIN    DOWN  431 

mood:  one  of  them  calling  with  a  piece  of  confi- 
dential information.  Bess  stopped,  horror-struck. 
If  they  went  on,  by  the  path  they  were  following, 
they  must  meet  them,  all  in  a  row! 

"What's  the  matter?'  said  Iveagh  idly.  "That's 
only  my  mother  and  my  aunt  and  another  woman." 
Another  woman ! — when  they  had  been  stealing  her 
horse ! 

"Can't  we  go  back*?"  she  murmured. 

"Why?" 

So  like  him, — wonderful  gallantry,  pride,  and 
firmness!  Only — well — Bess  would  have  to  share 
his  assumptions  now.  She  bit  her  lip. 

"Let  me  tell  her,"  she  murmured. 

"Why?"  said  Iveagh  again:  smiling,  bold  and 
bad, — heavens,  what  a  handful  of  a  husband!  No 
doing  anything  with  him,  either:  he  was  bound  to 
get  his  way. 

"Very  well,"  said  Bess,  gently  resigning. 

"Let  you  if  you  want  to,  darlin',"  said  Iveagh, 
passionately.  "You'd  do  it  best." 

Dear  me! — however,  he  was  too  close  to  her. 
Bess  put  a  hand  on  his  arm  to  hold  him  off.  As 
they  approached  the  other  party,  the  Duchess  looked 
more  overpowering,  Sunday-like,  and  serious.  Lady 
Oxborough  was  petrifying,  so  pink  and  placid. 


432  HATCHWAYS 

Mrs.  Courtier  in  a  habit  was  Hyde  Park  Corner  con- 
vention personified.  .  .  .  No,  she  could  not! 

"Be  good,"  she  whispered.  "You  shall  do  it. 
Only  remember " 

"I'm  rememberin'."     The  parties  met. 

'•'Iveagh,  you'll  do, — what's  the  silly  name  of  that 

thing  your  mother  has  on  the "  etc.,  from  the 

aunt. 

"Iveagh,  go  and  tell  them  in  the  stable  Mrs.  Cour- 
tier is  ready  for  her "  etc.,  from  the  mother. 

"Iveagh,  I  hear  you're  off,"  drawled  Mrs.  Cour- 
tier: but  civilly,  in  something  the  right  tone. 

None  of  them  noticed  Bess,  not  one  of  them.  She 
might  have  been  one  of  the  housemaids,  walking 
along  in  her  little  cotton  gown  at  his  side.  It  was 
true,  the  Duchess's  eyes,  at  the  encounter,  had  swept 
from  face  to  face :  a  sharp  look,  dubious, — she  was  a 
mother.  But  she  was  greatly  occupied  by  this  news 
of  Adelaide's  engagement  her  friend  had  brought. 
It  had  been  hard  to  keep  her  lofty  level  of  serenity 
on  the  occasion,  and  console  Mrs.  Courtier  as  was  fit- 
ting,— it  was  distinctly  hard.  She  feared  a  new 
strain  with  Wickford, — which  she  really  could  not 
stand, — would  certainly  result.  Especially  as  it 
would  be  her  melancholy  duty,  as  his  mother,  to 
point  the  moral  of  his  slackness, — amusing  himself 


CURTAIN    DOWN  433 

too  long  with  another  girl.  The  sight  of  Bess,  of 
course,  revived  her  slumbering  hostility.  Still  hang- 
ing about  Hatchways,  was  she? — showing  herself 
here, — not  even  decently  dressed! 

"We're  off  in  six  weeks  or  so,"  said  Iveagh, 
confining  his  reply  to  the  visitor,  not  to  either 
of  his  relations.  "That's  time  enough  to  see  to 
things,  and  pull  through  our  diseases.  She's  comin' 
along." 

Bess  blushed  pink,  as  his  hand  found  her  again, — 
it  had  left  her  for  five  minutes.  Such  a  way  of  doing 
it,  and  when  she  had  entreated  him  to  remember, — 
to  be  considerate!  Iveagh,  in  so  replying,  was  re- 
membering possibly. 

Mrs.  Courtier,  a  woman  of  fashion  and  funda- 
mental breeding,  recovered  her  balance  first. 
Neither  of  the  Oxboroughs  made  the  least  attempt 
to  adapt  themselves, — not  the  slightest.  But  Mrs. 
Courtier  did.  She  addressed,  and  congratulated, 
Miss  Ryeborn.  Why"?  Because  she  had  to.  She 
placed  Bess  on  the  instant  in  her  social  hand  of  cards, 
high  up,  and  so  recovered  her  tone  for  the  occasion. 
She  recognised,  admirably  competent  as  she  was,  this 
news  knocked  hers  out  completely,  by  her  own  rules. 
This  little  cotton-robed  painting-girl  would  take 
precedence,  not  only  of  Addy,  but  of  herself.  A 


HATCHWAYS 

duke's  daughter-in-law  (we  can  only  suppose)  over 
trumps  a  baron's  daughter,  in  Mrs.  Courtier's  fav- 
ourite game. 

For,  note  well,  as  M.  du  Frettay  said,  there  was 
no  question  whatever  that  this  dreadful  boy,  who 
had  worried  poor  Gertrude's  life  out,  would  do  what 
he  said.  He  might  be  doing  it  out  of  spite,  either  to 
his  mother,  his  brother,  or  the  Fitzmaurice  girl, — but 
do  it  he  would  and  stylishly.  Iveagh's  style, 
though  admittedly  singular,  had  often  struck  Mrs. 
Courtier.  It  was  better  than  his  brother's,  really, — 
more  savage,  as  it  were, — more  chic.  She  was  cer- 
tain, if  he  chose  to  drag  the  girl  out  of  obscurity,  tour 
the  world  with  her,  and  bring  her  back  to  London, 
money  or  no,  he  would  get  her  through.  For,  as  to 
giving  yourself  tropical  diseases,  and  travelling, 
even  into  the  most  ghastly  places,  that  is  quite  all 
right.  Heaps  of  people  one  knows  do  it.  The 
reception  given,  by  quite  inexpressible  persons,  to 
Sir  George  Trenchard,  during  the  season  under  Mrs. 
Courtier's  view,  proved  that. 

"I'm  afraid,"  said  Bess,  trembling,  "he  put  me  on 
your  horse.  It  was  rather  naughty — but  we  saw  it 
-Ebony " 

"Ah  yes,  what  do  you  think  of  him*?"  drawled 
Mrs.  Courtier,  in  a  really  paralysing  manner;  as 


CURTAIN    DOWN  435 

though  Bess  had  done  her  a  favour,  and  was  to  be 
presumed  a  judge. 

"He's  a  darling,"  said  Bess:  which  was,  as  it  hap- 
pened, the  perfect  answer.  "But  I  don't  know  how 
to  ride,"  she  added,  with  native  sincerity. 

"Ah  well,  he's  a  safe  old  beast,"  said  Ebony's 
mistress,  and  looked  at  her  watch.  "Gertrude,  I 
must  be  off.  Congrats,  all  round.  Don't  put  your- 
selves out" — to  the  young  couple,  with  great  civility. 

"Iveagh "  said  the  Duchess,  awfully. 

"Iveagh "  breathed  Bess:  such  a  different 

tone !  "Please  do  your  duty  and  leave  me,"  it  said. 

"You  go  along  to  the  glass  house,  darlin',"  said 
Iveagh.  "Look  at  all  the  little  things  on  the  right 
side  till  I  tell  you  their  names.  Don't  believe  the 
names  that  are  stuck  on  them.  I'll  not  be  five 
minutes.  Mother " 

It  was  the  crux.  Had  the  Duchess  struck  at  that 
point — but  she  did  not.  She  could  not,  somehow. 
Isabel  waited  for  her, — she  strove  visibly,  valiantly, 
— and  then  went  under  to  her  handful  of  a  son,  like 
the  rest. 

"You'll  lunch  with  us,  Elizabeth "  Vic- 
tory! Mrs.  Courtier  knew  it.  He  had  carried 
Bess  with  him  already,  through  the  first  and  stiffest 
line. 


436  HATCHWAYS 

L. 

There  is  little  more,  but  notes,  to  add  to  this 

history. 

"Dear  Iveagh, — dear  boy,"  said  Ernestine.  "I 
don't  know  why  I  am  so  glad  about  it." 

Her  face  was  pressed  in  her  hands  as  she  sat,  late 
that  night,  on  a  cushion  at  her  husband's  feet.  It 
was  her  way  to  sit  on  the  floor  at  times,  when  none 
of  the  young  fry  were  about.  A  long  time  ago, 
when  she  was  engaged  herself,  she  had  done  it,  Rick 
remembered,  still  more  frequently. 

"I'm  sure  you  deserve  it,"  said  Rick,  a  broad 
hand  on  her  hair.  "You've  worked  enough.  Now 
you'll  have  to  start  again  on  somebody  else,  won't 
you?  What  about  'tother  one, — he'll  be  stiffer 
work,  I  fancy." 

"I  leave  Wick  to  Gertrude,"  said  Ernestine,  smil- 
ing faintly;  but  he  saw  her  wet  eyes.  To  see  that 
boy,  of  all  boys,  happy, — it  was  enough  for  her. 
Enough  for  a  lifetime  really.  But  then  nobody 
else,  unless  Wick,  had  ever  seen  Iveagh  at  the 
worst.  Three  Whit-Sundays  since,  she  had  been 
remembering  that  morning,  she  had  prayed  for  his 
life,  no  less,  before  her  little  country  altar,  while  his 
mother  sat  with  absent  eyes  and  darkened  brow,  and 
his  brother's  head  was  buried  in  his  arms, — like  hers. 


CURTAIN    DOWN  437 

And  Lise,  sweet  little  Lise,  cut  church  and  walked 
with  Mark,  as  her  Bess  had  done  with  Iveagh 
that  morning.  .  .  .  Wonderful,  evidently, — nature's 
change,  nature's  grouping,  no  work  of  hers. 

It  never  is  the  work  of  people  like  Ernestine,  you 
may  have  noticed :  no  doubt  because  they  work  with 
nature. 

"Ripping,  Bess,  I'm  so  glad,"  said  Wickford,  on 
the  terrace  of  the  House  of  Commons,  where  they 
caught  his  Grace  at  teatime, — most  correct. 

"No,  ye  don't,"  said  Iveagh,  cutting  in  between 
them,  just  in  time.  "You've  flirted  about  long 
enough,  as  it  is,  for  me." 

"Later,"  telegraphed  the  Duke,  across  him,  with 
a  clear  wink, — not  quite  adapted  to  his  present  po- 
sition. However,  there  was  no  one  else  very  near, 
except  a  fair  girl,  sandy  rather — whom  he  and 
Iveagh  called  Janet  familiarly,  though  Bess  sus- 
pected her  of  being  something  rather  grand. 

Wick  had  to  make  the  party  up,  of  course,  when 
he  asked  the  other  girl  to  tea.  The  Suirs  did  things 
nicely. 

"Can  you  put  up  Bess  as  well*?"   telegraphed 


438  HATCHWAYS 

Iveagh  to  M.  du  Frettay,  he  being  under  the  obli- 
gation of  finishing  his  diseases,  and  finding  fire-arms, 
in  Paris. 

"Enchanted — felicitations — mention  whether  mar- 
ried or  no,  for  Mamma,"  telegraphed  back  M.  du 
Frettay,  causing  shocks  to  all  the  nice  girls  in  the 
telegraph  offices,  as  the  message  made  its  way  across. 
But  Parisian  people,  friends  especially,  are  never  to 
be  trusted,  as  any  of  the  Oxboroughs  would  have 
told  you.  Wickford  and  Iveagh,  equally  amused, 
set  that  telegram  up  on  the  chimneypiece  in  the  hall 
at  Holmer,  till  their  aunt  tore  it  down  and  burnt  it. 

Madame  du  Frettay,  who  was  about  ten  times  as 
particular  about  things  in  general  as  the  Duchess, 
and  lived  on  terms  with  the  raw  materials  of  her 
hospitality  which  would  have  shocked  the  Duchess's 
maid,  mentioned  in  a  letter  to  her  married  daughter 
that  the  young  "Lord  Suir,"  Gabriel's  friend,  was 
by  several  degrees  the  least  conceited  Englishman 
she  had  ever  come  across,  and  his  wife  an  able  de- 
signer, and  a  teachable  girl.  The  rest  of  the  letter 
was  about  Gabriel,  whose  disgusting  application  to 
those  machines  was  making  it  more  and  more  diffi- 
cult for  her  to  get  him  safely  married  to  the  girl  she 
meant.  Whether  she  did  or  not,  we  leave  to  those 


CURTAIN    DOWN  439 

who  know  French  mothers,  and  their  various  di- 
vergences from  English,  to  determine.  A  few  years 
after,  Gabriel's  machines  became  the  mode,  and  him- 
self as  well :  but  that  is  in  everybody's  memory. 

Gabriel  worked  with  nature  too,  like  Ernestine, 
but  subtly,  to  defeat  nature, — such  is  the  mocking 
Gallic  spirit.  And  he  succeeded,  he  and  his  friends, 
in  the  course  of  quite  a  few  majestic  and  memorable 
years.  Nor  will  he  and  his  kind  ever  cease  to  lend 
humanity  wings,  however  humanity,  blind  and 
thankless,  disregard  and  desecrate  their  inventions. 
Looking  at  the  sky  as  they  do  constantly,  well  above 
men's  heads,  they  are  not  easily  depressed ! 

Conor  Arthur  William  Suir,  Viscount  Kells  in  the 
English,  and  Duke  of  Wickford  (with  earlships 
more  ancient)  in  the  Irish  peerage,  brought  home  in 
his  own  good  time  an  absolutely  irreproachable  girl 
to  his  mother,  whom  the  Duchess  had  never  hap- 
pened to  meet,  though  both  the  boys  seemed  to  know 
her  familiarly.  "Janet,"  as  they  called  her,  owned 
coal-mines  as  well  as  an  unblemished  Gaelic  escutch- 
eon. She  was  pretty  (trust  Wick!)  albeit  sandy  a 
trifle,  and  perfectly  conversant,  what  was  oddest  of 
all,  with  his  affairs.  Wickford,  it  seemed,  had  laid 
these  before  her,  in  great  detail,  the  day  he  proposed, 


440  HATCHWAYS 

since  he  and  Janet  had  been  friends  for  long,  and  he 
was  far  too  honest  to  deceive  her.  The  fact  that 
he  offered  her  a  coronet  (between. friends)  was  over- 
looked. That  is  to  say,  Wickford  overlooked  it. 
Whether  or  no  Lady  Janet  did,  we  simply  cannot 
say.  She  was  of  unblemished  Highland  origin. 

Lise,  losing  her  first  delicate  baby,  had  no  second 
child, — a  tragedy.  She  suffered  bitterly  as  such 
natures  do:  but  she  rose  to  tragedy  as  she  rose  to 
comedy,  fully  and  easily,  facing  it  straight.  Mark 
loved  her  with  a  tenderness  he  was  quite  unable  to 
express,  more  passionately  and  inconspicuously,  of 
course,  when  tragedy  made  its  quiet  appearance  be- 
tween them.  Wickford,  we  are  sorry  to  say,  simply 
hated  him  at  their  last  encounter:  it  was  all  anybody 
could  do  to  keep  the  peace.  Iveagh  was  far  more 
tolerant.  But  then,  he  always  had  been, — because 
he  loved  Lise. 

That  the  man  who  loved  an  Elizabeth  Fitz- 
maurice,  faithfully  as  Iveagh  did,  may  love  an 
Elizabeth  Ryeborn  just  as  well,  should  need,  and 
shall  have,  no  explantion.  Did  not  Shakespeare 
give  a  Rosaline  to  his  Romeo,  before  ever  Juliet 
came  to  make  his  love  immortal  *?  Could  his  author 
not  have  suppressed  Rosaline,  and  soothed  senti- 


CURTAIN    DOWN  441 

mentality,  had  he  chosen?  And  need  a  man  know 
better  than  Shakespeare,  or  than  Romeo,  in  this  life? 

Iveagh  did  not.  His  was  the  same  courtly  ideal, 
— the  service  of  a  boy's  dreamland  to  Lise,  for 
ever, — and  a  man's  love  to  Bess.  He  and  Bess 
were  delightfully  happy,  delightfully  fond  of  one 
another,  and  he  carried  her  about  with  him  all  over 
the  world.  They  shot  back  to  London  occasionally, 
Iveagh  to  see  his  brother,  and  Lady  Iveagh  her  aunt. 
It  would  have  been  far  nicer,  of  course,  if  they  had 
come,  respectively,  to  see  their  parents :  but  the  nice 
thing,  on  this  earth,  is  so  seldom  done.  The  Duch- 
ess remained  to  the  end  impatient  with  Iveagh. 
She  never  quite  forgave  him  for  marrying  that  girl ; 
nor  for  making  himself,  in  the  end,  a  bigger  news- 
paper name  than  Wickford's.  But  that  was 
George's  fault,  entirely.  George,  persistently  curi- 
ous about  uncharted  and  unhealthy  districts  always, 
dragged  everybody  attached  to  him,  Iveagh  in- 
cluded, in  his  triumphant  train. 

There  is  also,  we  believe,  a  small  tropical  water- 
plant,  to  be  seen  at  Kew,  named  Suirii.  And  as 
this  gives  a  good  idea  of  the  impossibilities  attempted 
by  Science,  and  the  absurdities  reached  by  it,  with  a 
glance  of  sympathy  towards  Lady  Oxborough,  we 
close  this  tale. 


OF  CALIFORNIA  J 

T  ,os  Angeles 

the  last  date  star. 


000  561  953 


PR 

-  37 
S568h 


